IRLF 


MS 


HE   AND   SHE 


OR 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 


BY 


w.  w/sro&r 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

QTfje  Bt&ersttie  $reag, 
1895 


•   V    :CopVrl&ht,1883, 

w.  "STORY 


^.Z^  rights  reserved. 


NINETEENTH  EDITION. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Company. 


HE  AND  SHE; 

OR,  A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO. 


HE  was  in  tfyo  habit  of  w&p&erfrig  qlrmfy 
during  the  summer  i^iotnirgs,  through  Jihfc 
forest  and  along  the  mountain  side,  and 
one  of  his  favorite  haunts  was  a  pictur 
esque  glen,  where  he  often  sat  for  hours 
alone  with  nature,  lost  in  vague  contem 
plation  :  now  watching  the  busy  insect 
life  in  the  grass  or  in  the  air  ;  now  listen 
ing  to  the  chirming  of  birds  in  the  woods, 
the  murmuring  of  bees  hovering  about 
the  flowers,  or  the  welling  of  the  clear 
mountain  torrent,  that  told  forever  its 
endless  tale  as  it  wandered  by  mossy 
boulders  and  rounded  stones  down  to 
the  valley  below  ;  now  gazing  idly  into 
the  sky,  against  which  the  overhanging 
beeches  printed  their  leaves  in  tessellated 


733444 


4  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

light  and  dark,  or  vaguely  watching  the 
lazy  clouds  that  trailed  across  the  tender 
blue  ;  now  noting  in  his  portfolio  some 
passing  thought,  or  fancy,  or  feeling, 
that  threw  its  gleam  of  light  or  shadow 
across  his  dreaming  mind. 

Here,  leaning  against  one  of  the  mossy 
boulders,  in  the  shadow  of  the  beeches, 
he  was  writing  in  his  portfolio  one  sum- 
!ioj5r*tmorning,-vrben.  slie'accidentally  found 
him^  and-tn4  fib]$6$neg.g*  conversation  took 


She.  Ah,  here  you  are,  sitting  under 
this  old  beech  and  scribbling  verses,  as 
usual,  are  you  not  ?  Why  don't  you  rest 
and  lie  fallow  ?  You  are  always  working 
your  brains.  All  work  and  no  play  —  and 
you  know  the  rest.  Come,  confess  ! 

He.   I  confess,  I  can't  help  it. 

She.  You  can  if  you  choose. 

He.  But  suppose  I  don't  choose  ;  sup 
pose  it  is  my  delight  to  do  this.  Nature 
is  always  teasing  me  to  do  something  for 
her,  —  to  dress  her  in  verse,  or  in  some 
shape  or  other  of  art  ;  and  she  has  such 
subtle  powers  of  persuasion  that  I  cannot 
resist  her.  You  know  that  in  some  ways 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.  5 

you  are  her  child,  and  I  doubt  if  I  could 
refuse  you  anything. 

She.  Well,  I  take  you  at  your  word. 
Read  me  what  you  have  written. 

He.  It  is  only  rubbish ;  it  is  scarce 
worth  your  hearing. 

She.  Let  me  be  the  judge.  You  have, 
I  see,  a  book  full  of  what  you  call  rub 
bish.  You  have  promised  me  so  often 
to  read  me  some  of  your  poems,  and  the 
time  has  now  come  to  fulfill  your  prom 
ise.  Don't  be  shy.  You  know  you  want 
to  read  them  to  me.  There  never  was  a 
poet  who  did  not  like  to  read  his  verses. 

He.  Not  to  everybody. 

She.  Ah,  then,  you  don't  think  me 
worthy  to  hear  them. 

He.  No;  I  don't  think  them  worthy  to 
be  heard  by  you. 

She.  Nonsense!  You  like  to  read  them ; 
I  like  to  hear  them.  Here  we  are  in 
this  delightful  glen;  there  is  no  one  near 
to  interrupt  us;  we  have  the  whole  day 
before  us;  I  have  a  piece  of  embroidery 
to  occupy  my  hands;  and  I  will  promise 
to  praise  every  poem  you  read. 

He.  Then  I  won't  read  you  a  word  of 
Anything  I  have  here. 


6  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  You  know  you 
wish  me  to  praise  them.  What  poet  was 
ever  willing  to  read  his  verses  unless  he 
expected  or  at  least  hoped  to  be  praised  ? 
You  cannot  pretend  you  wish  me  to  crit 
icise  them  and  find  fault  with  them. 

He.  But  I  do;  that  is  just  what  I 
should  like.  I  should  like  to  have  an 
honest  opinion,  if  I  ever  could  get  it;  but 
that  is  of  all  things  the  most  difficult  tc 
obtain  from  any  one.  We  always  have 
either  a  friend  who  overpraises,  or  a  critic 
who  undervalues,  or  a  brother-poet  whose 
personality  interferes  with  his  judgment, 
or  an  indifferent  person  who  does  not  take 
interest  enough  to  have  an  opinion,  or 
some  one  who  is  kneaded  up  of  prose, 
and  sees  no  reason  for  singing  clothes,  or 
—  a  fool. 

She.  And  in  the  last  class  are  all,  I 
suppose,  who  think  your  verses  are  poor 
stuff? 

He.  I  dare  say  there  is  something  in 
that,  and  they  may  be  right  in  their  opin 
ion,  but  of  course  we  don't  like  it. 

She.  Well,  I  don't  come  under  any 
class  you  have  mentioned,  and  I  insist  on 
hearing  some  of  these  verses. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.  7 

He.  And  you  will  be  honest  with  me  ? 

She.  As  honest  as  I  dare  to  be  with  a 
poet  who  reads  me  his  poems.  Now  be 
gin. 

He.  But  really,  I  assure  you,  I  have 
nothing  here  worth  your  listening  to. 
This  is  only  a  book  where  I  carelessly  jot 
down  whatever  comes  into  my  head  just 
as  it  comes.  It  is  full  of  first  sketches, 
half-finished  things,  glimpses  of  thoughts 
or  feelings  or  persons.  They  are  not 
really  poems.  That  is  too  high  and  hon 
orable  a  name  to  give  them. 

She.  Ah,  but  that  is  just  what  I  like  to 
hear.  It  will  be  like  looking  over  an  ar 
tist's  sketch-book,  where  things  are  half 
done,  just  begun,  altered,  erased,  outlined, 
unframed,  and  these  always  have  a  pe 
culiar  charm  that  finished  work  never 
has;  a  freshness  and  careless  grace  that 
elaboration  tames  and  spoils.  Ah  !  read 
me  these.  They  let  one  into  the  secret 
laboratory  of  the  poet's  mind. 

He.  Or  behind  the  scenes,  where  the 
machinery  is  visible,  and  everything  is 
rude  and  rough  and  out  of  place. 

She.  Well,  there  is  a  fascination  in 
that,  too.  There  is  where  the  friends  of 


8  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

the  actors  and  authors  are  permitted  to 
go.  But  begin :  time  is  flying,  the  day  is 
passing. 

He.  Ah,  yes,  if  we  only  could  stop 
Time  when  all  is  happy  and  bright !  But 
then  it  swiftest  flees  away.  Here,  listen, 
since  you  will  hear  something.  This  is 
apropos. 

O  beloved  day, 
Stay  with  us,  oh  stay  ! 
Hurry  not  with  cruel  haste  thus  so  swift 
away. 

All  is  now  so  fair; 
Love  is  in  the  air; 

More  than  this  of  happiness  scarce  the 
heart  could  bear. 

Nothing  short  of  heaven, 
That  perhaps  not  even 
Sweeter,  dearer,  more  divine,  will  to  us 
be  given. 

Dearest,  on  my  breast 
Lean  thy  head  and  rest : 
Nothing  that  this  world  can  give  is  better; 
this  is  best. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.  9 

Life  is  in  its  prime, 
And  the  glad  springtime 
Breathes    its    subtle   odors    through  us* 
turning  thought  to  rhyme. 

To  its  very  rim 
Joy  life's  cup  doth  brim  ; 
Nature,  smiling  all  around  us,  sings  its 
happy  hymn. 

Love  its  perfect  tune 
On  the  harp  of  June 

Plays  the  while  the  whole  world  listens, 
'neath  the  pulsing  noon. 

Almost 't  is  a  pain 
In  the  heart  and  brain  ; 
All  the  nerves  of  life  are  thrilling  with 
its  rapturous  strain. 

Stay  with  us,  oh,  stay, 
Dear,  beloved  day  ! 

Flower  and  bloom  of  full  creation,  never 
pass  away. 

There,  I  read  it  to  you  just  as  I  wrote 
it,  without  a  correction,  since  you  will 
have  sketches. 


10  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.  It  is  what  I  call  a  rapturous  sigh 
for  the  impossible.  And  the  beloved 
one  ?  —  but  I  must  not  ask  who  she  was. 

He.  Oh,  yes  ;  you  may.  She  was  a 
most  exquisite  creature.  You  never  knew 
her  ;  nor  I  either. 

She.  Well,  that  is  some  satisfaction. 
She  was  not  real. 

He.  Oh  yes,  perfectly  real ;  more  real 
than  any  actual  person  I  know.  But  with 
the  day  and  the  hour  she  vanished,  like 
the  weird  sisters  of  Macbeth,  into  air. 

She.  It  must  have  been  a  charming 
day  to  have  inspired  such  verses.  That, 
at  all  events,  must  have  been  a  fact. 

He.  Certainly.  The  day  was  a  fact. 
Here  is  the  date,  November  21,  and  a 
note  in  my  diary,  "  Rains  cats  and  dogs 
and  pitchforks,  and  I  think  the  wind  is 
mad ;  it  blows  so  that  the  whole  house 
shudders."  You  see,  I  made  the  day  as 
well  as  the  person  and  the  poem. 

She.  There  is  no  believing  anything 
that  poets  say.  I  suppose  had  it  been 
a  faultless  day  in  June,  you  would  have 
been  mooning  and  moaning  over  some 
body  and  something. 

He.  Ah,  but  all  days  do  not  turn  out 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          11 

fust  as  this  did.  Our  beautiful  days  are 
those  we  don't  expect,  which  fall  to  us 
out  of  heaven,  perfect  and  with  a  sweet 
surprise.  Others  to  which  we  have  looked 
forward,  and  from  which  we  have  ex 
pected  so  much  —  too  much  —  are  so  often 
only  disappointments.  We  profess  to  en 
joy  them,  but  we  do  not  ;  they  are  fail 
ures.  We  cannot  hunt  joy  into  its  fast 
nesses  ;  it  flies  before  the  hunter,  and 
comes  suddenly  forward  to  meet  us  face 
to  face  when  we  least  look  for  it.  Some 
of  our  beautiful  days  turn  out,  for  in 
stance,  like  this  :  — 

Yes,  't  was  a  beautiful  day, 
The  guests  were  all  laughing  and  gay  ; 
All  said  they  enjoyed  and  admired. 
But  oh,  I  'm  so  tired,  —  so  tired  ! 
I  'm  glad  that  the  night 's  coming  on, 
I  am  glad  to  get  home  and  be  quiet ; 
I  am  glad  that  the  long  day  is  done, 
With  its  noise  and  its  laughter  and  riot. 

For  somehow,  it  seemed  like  a  fate, 
I  was  always  a  moment  too  late  : 
The  music  just  stopped  when  I  came, 
I  saw  but  the  fireworks'  last  flame  ; 


12  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

The  dancing  was  over,  the  dancers 

Were  laughing  and  going  away  ; 

The  curtain  had  dropped,  and  the  fook 

lights 
Were  all  that  I  saw  of  the  play. 

It  was  only  my  luck,  I  suppose  ; 
And  the  day  was  delightful  to  those 
Who  were  right  in  their  time  and  theu 

place. 

But  for  me,  I  did  nothing  but  race 
And  struggle  ;  and  all  was  in  vain. 
We  cannot  have  all  of  us  prizes, 
And  a  pleasure  that 's  missed  is  a  pain, 
And  one  balance  goes  down  as  one  rises. 

And  I  'm  tired,  —  so  tired  at  last 

That  I  'm  glad  that  the  great  day  is  past, 

The  pleasure  I  sought  for  I  missed, 

And  I  ask,  Did  it  really  exist  ? 

Were  they  happy  who  smiled  so,  and  sai(J 

'T  was  delightful,  exciting,  enchanting  ? 

I  doubt  it ;  but  they  perhaps  had 

Just  the  something  I  always  was  wanting. 

In  the  triumph,  I  ask,  does  the  crown 
Never  crease  the  smooth  brow  to  a  frown  "i 
Does  the  wine  that  our  spirits  makes  gay 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          13 

Leave  the  Iiead  free  from  aches  the  next 

day? 
Is  the  joy,  when  'tis  caught,  worth  the 

while 

Of  the  struggle  and  labor  to  win  it  ? 
Has  love  a  perpetual  smile, 
And  life's  best  no  bitterness  hi  it  ? 

It  may  be,  and  yet  at  its  best, 
When  the  wave  of  life  towers  to  its  crest, 
Ere  its  rim  for  a  moment  can  flash 
In  its  joy-light,  it  breaks  with  a  crash, 
And  shattered  sinks  down  on  the  shore  ; 
For  the  strength  of  desire  has  departed, 
The  glory  and  gladness  are  o'er, 
And  it  dies  in  despair,  broken-hearted. 

She.   Life  is  just  such  a  day. 

He.   Ah  yes,  but  too  often. 

She.  If  we  could  only  be  content  with 
what  we  have,  how  much  happier  we 
should  be.  But  the  hope  that  beckons 
us  into  the  future  commonly  spoils  the 
present.  The  music  is  always  on  the  next 
field  ;  the  promise  is  always  sweeter  than 
the  performance  ;  we  are  always  either 
looking  back  and  regretting,  or  looking 
forward  and  hoping,  and  the  actual  pres- 


14  HE  AND  SHE;   OB, 

ent,  which  stands  offering  us  flowers,  we 
treat  with  scorn,  or  at  least  with  indiffer 
ence.  The  gods  have  eternally  the  pres 
ent  ;  for  them  is  no  future,  no  past ;  and 
so  they  are  divine.  It  is  only  Satan  who 
tempts  us  with  the  future,  or  taunts  us 
with  the  past,  because  we  are  mortals  ; 
and  thus  he  jeers  at  us,  and  spoils  all  we 
really  own.  Joy  is  only  a  dream. 

He.  But  a  dream  is  not  always  a  joy. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  one  if  you  would 
like  to  hear  it ;  whether  from  the  ivory 
gate  or  not,  you  shall  say.  But  before 
I  read  this  dream,  since  I  have  given 
you  two  Days,  let  me  now  give  you  one 
Night,  the  end  of  all  the  banquet,  and  the 
dancing,  and  the  laughter  :  — 

Through  the  casement  the  wind  is  moan 
ing* 

On  the  pane  the  ivy  crawls  ; 
The  fire  is  faded  to  ashes, 

And  the  black  brand  broken  falls. 

The  voices  are  gone,  but  I  linger, 

And  silence  is  over  all; 
Where  once  there  was  music  and  laughter 

Stands  Death  in  the  empty  hall. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          15 

There  is  only  a  dead  rose  lying 
Faded  and  crushed  on  the  floor, 

And  a  harp  whose  strings  are  broken, 
That  Love  will  play  no  more. 

She.  Oh,  too,  too  sad;  I  am  sorry  you 
read  it. 

He.  Well,  life  is  so. 

She.  I  don't  care  if  it  is,  one  should 
not  dwell  on  it.  Now  for  the  dream. 
Was  it  a  real  one  ? 

He.  Yes,  a  real  one ;  and  you  will  see 
what  a  pleasant  one  it  was. 

Last  night  I  had  a  tiger  to  play  with, 
Ah   yes,  as  you   say,   't  was   only  a 

dream, 
But  even  in  a  dream  to  play  with  a 

tiger 
Is  not  so  pleasant  as  it  may  seem. 

She  was  smooth  and  supple,  and  lithe  and 

graceful, 
But  she  watched  me  with  ever  flashing 

eye. 

And  I  felt  forever  a  horrible  feeling 
While  that  tiger  was  with  me,  that 
death  was  nigh; 


16  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

That  at  any  moment  her  claws  might  rend 

me, 
And  an  instant's  passion  might  cost  me 

my  life. 
So  I  gave  her  whatever  she  wanted  to 

soothe  her, 

And  promised  to  make  this  tiger  my 
wife. 

But  what  was  curious  —  though  in  dream 
ing, 

There  is  nothing  that  really  does  sur 
prise  — 

Was  that  it  seemed  to  be  you,  dear  Annie, 
And  had  your  graces,  and  had  your 
eyes. 

She.  Oh,  that  is  really  unpardonable. 
Who  was  it  that  refused  you  a  turn  in 
the  waltz,  or  would  not  pin  a  cotillion  fa 
vor  on  your  coat,  that  you  thus  revenged 
yourself  upon  her?  Annie  —  Annie  — 
Who  was  Annie  ? 

He.  You  always  want  to  know  the 
unknowable.  You  always  suppose  that 
such  verses  apply  to  an  individual. 

She.  Yes,  they  always  have  a  root  in 
some  fact  or  person.  They  are  not  all 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.  17 

made  out  of  your  brain  ;  they  are  not 
wholly  fictions.  You  need  not  pretend 
that  they  are. 

He.  I  do  not.  But  one  imagines  all 
sorts  of  things  that  are  false,  and  I  con 
fess  that  I  amuse  myself  often  in  society, 
by  looking  into  the  windows  of  persons 
I  do  not  know  to  see  what  they  are  about 
within. 

She.  Looking  in  at  windows  !  I  am 
ashamed  of  you. 

He.  The  windows  I  mean  are  the  eyes. 
Strange  creatures  look  through  them  — 
tigers,  lambs,  devils,  angels. 

She.  Oh  !  well.  I  am  glad  to  hear 
that  there  are  angels  sometimes.  Thank 
you.  I  was  afraid  you  only  saw  wild 
beasts  hi  our  eyes. 

He.  Sometimes  tenderness  infinite,  of- 
tener  devils  of  jealousy  and  hatred,  and 
very  frequently  empty  rooms,  with  not 
even  a  little  devil  in  them,  much  less  an 
angel.  We  get  strange  peeps  at  times 
into  the  world  within,  when  we  least  ex 
pect  it. 

She.  So  it  was  not  because  Annie  would 
not  give  you  a  waltz  ? 

He.  No.  I  told  you  'twas  a  real 
2 


18  HE  AND  SHE;    OR, 

dream.    This  is  my  idea  of  a  waltz,  when 
Annie  gives  me  one  :  — 

My  arm  is  around  your  waist,  love, 

Your  hand  is  clasping  mine, 
Your  head  leans  over  my  shoulder, 

As  around  in  the  waltz  we  twine. 
I  feel  your  quick  heart  throbbing, 

Your  panting  breath  I  breathe, 
And  the  odor  rare  of  your  hyacinth  haif 

Comes  faintly  up  from  beneath. 

To  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  music, 

In  the  floating  ebb  and  flow 
Of  the  tense  violin,  and  the  lisping  flute, 

And  the  burring  bass  we  go. 
Whirling,  whirling,  whirling, 

In  a  rapture  swift  and  sweet, 
To  the  pleading  violoncello's  tones, 

And  the  pulsing  piano's  beat. 

The  world  is  alive  with  motion, 

The  lights  are  whirling  all, 
And  the  feet  and  brain  are  stirred  by  the 
strain 

Of  the  music's  incessant  call. 
Dance  !  dance  !  dance  !  it  calls  to  us  ; 

And  borne  on  the  waves  of  sound, 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          19 

We  circling  swing,  in  a  dizzy  ring, 
With  the  whole  world  wheeling  round. 

The  jewels  dance  on  your  bosom, 

On  your  arms  the  bracelets  dance, 
The  swift  blood  speaks  in  your  mantling 
cheeks, 

In  your  eyes  is  a  dewy  trance  ; 
Your  white  robes  flutter  around  you, 

Nothing  is  calm  or  still, 
And  the  senses  stir  in  the  music's  whirr 

With  a  swift  electric  thrill. 

We  pause  ;  and  your  waist  releasing, 

We  stand  and  breathe  for  a  while  ; 
A.nd,  your  face  afire  with  a  sweet  desire, 

You  look  in  my  eyes  and  smile. 
We  scarcely  can  speak  for  panting, 

But  I  lean  to  you,  and  say, 
A.h  !  who,  my  love,  can  resist  you, 

You  have  waltzed  my  heart  away. 

She.  It  gets  into  my  feet  as  well  as 
my  head,  this  waltz  of  yours. 

He.  The  lines  have  perhaps  a  certain 
kind  of  movement  in  them,  defective  as 
they  are  ;  but  they  were  scribbled  in  a 
corner  of  a  ball-room  while  waltzers  were 


20  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

whirling  dizzily  round,  and  the 
were  shaking  and  the  music  was  going  \ 
so  you  cannot  expect  they  should  havt 
any  thing  more  than  mere  go. 

She.  Mere  go  !  You  speak  of  that  a* 
if  it  were  nothing  ;  but  after  all,  is  not 
that  the  secret  of  a  good  deal  of  our 
poetry,  and  especially  that  of  Byron? 
You  cannot  look  into  it  with  a  critical 
eye.  It  is  full  of  bad  English,  and  false 
metaphor,  and  strained  sentiment ;  but 
there  is  "go"  in  it,  and  it  intoxicates 
the  thoughts  and  senses,  so  that  one 
ceases  to  be  critical.  Glissez,  glissez  mor- 
tels,  n'appuyez  pas,  should  be  your  rule  in 
reading  him.  It  won't  do  to  linger.  You 
must  gulp,  not  sip. 

He.  At  all  events,  he  did  not  over- 
refine  as  some  of  our  modern  poets  do. 

For  instance,  there  is  ,  I  suppose 

he  means  something,  but  his  meaning 
is  so  involved  in  a  complicated  web  of 
vague  and  far-fetched  words  and  phrases, 
that  sometimes  it  is  not  a  little  difficult 
to  get  at  it;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  after 
you  have  got  at  it,  it  is  worth  the 
trouble. 

She.   No,  we  are  now  getting  so  euphu- 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          21 

istic,  that  I  don't  pretend  to  understand 
half  I  read,  though  I  am  a  woman,  and 
much  of  it,  apparently,  is  written  spe 
cially  for  us  women  ;  or  at  least  so  it 
would  seem,  there  is  so  little  that  is 
manly  in  it. 

He.  Some  of  them  talk  like  Hamlet's 
friend,  Osric  —  "  after  what  flourish  their 
natures  will."  Here  is  a  profile  sketch 
of .  Do  you  recognize  it  ? 

She.  Oh,  very  like;  and  what  <ire  the 
lines  you  have  written  under  it  ? 

He.  Mere  nonsense. 

She.   Read  them. 

He. 

A  Brahmin  he  sits  apart, 
Our  modern  poet,  and  gazes 
Attentively  into  his  heart, 
And  its  faint  and  vaporous  phases, 
Examines  with  infinite  care. 
All  his  feelings  are  thin  as  air, 
All  his  passions  are  mild  as  milk. 
He  loves  but  the  quaint  and  the  olc^ 
He  dares  not  be  simple  and  bold, 
But  refines  and  refines  and  refines, 
And  treads  on  a  thread  as  spare 
As  the  spider's  gauzy  silk, 
That  trembles  in  all  its  lines 


22  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

With  the  breeze,  and  can  scarcely  hold 

The  dewdrop  the  morning  has  strung  ; 

And  so  'twixt.the  earth  and  the  sky, 

And  to  neither  wed,  he  is  hung  ; 

And  he  ponders  his  words  and  his  rhymes, 

And  his  delicate  tinkle  of  chimes, 

And  strives  to  be  deep  and  intense  ; 

While  the  world  of  beauty  and  sense, 

The  strong  and  palpitant  world, 

The  powers  and  passions  of  man, 

By  which  it  is  whipped  and  whirled, 

Are  only  to  him  an  offense. 

'T  is  the  chaff  blown  away  by  the  fan, 

That  he  gathers  his  garners  to  fill, 

Not  the  gram  that  the  world's  great  mill 

Takes  out  of  life  as  its  toll. 

For  he  scorns  the  common  and  rude, 

And  only  examines  his  soul,  — 

His  particular  soul,  —  and  wears 

A  vestment  of  whims,  and  of  airs, 

And  of  fancies  so  frail  and  so  thin 

That  they  scarcely  can  cover  the  nude. 

Little  thought  he  is  nursing  within, 

So  sitting  alone  and  apart, 

He  broods  and  he  broods  and  he  broods, 

And  plays  on  his  little  lute, 

And  sings  of  his  little  moods, 

With  a  sweet  aesthetic  art, 

And  his  song  is  — 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.  23 

There,  you  see,  I  have  left  off.  What 
is  his  song  ? 

She.  I  suppose  it  is  a  ballade,  with 
skim-milk  love  and  fine-drawn  sentiment, 
belonging  to  some  other  century,  and  sung 
perhaps  by  a  mediaeval  knight  to  the  ac 
companiment  of  some  queer  instrument, 
now  unknown  except  in  museums,  while 
around  him  are  lying  long,  lean,  languid 
ladies  on  a  lawn. 

He.  Charming  alliteration,  worthy  of 
the  theme,  but  the  ballade  must  have  a 
refrain. 

She.  Of  course,  what  is  a  ballade  with 
out  a  refrain  ? 

He.  And  the  refrain  must  have  no  con 
nection,  as  far  as  meaning  goes,  with  the 
ballade. 

She.  Of  course  not !  For  whom  do 
you  take  me,  to  imagine  that  I  suppose  it 
necessary  for  a  refrain  to  have  any  sense  ? 
A  refrain  is  always  the  burden  of  a  poem, 
and  is  fitly  named  a  burden. 

He.  The  burden,  or  bourdon,  as  Spen 
ser  more  properly  spells  it,  is  intelligible 
enough  in  the  old  ballades,  which  were  at 
first  improvised,  or  supposed  to  be  impro 
vised,  and  always  were  sung  or  chanted  j 


24  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

and  then  it  represented  the  pause  or  rest 
which  the  accompanying  instrument  filled 
up  with  its  little  ritornello,  and  bour- 
donned  sometimes  alone  without  words, 
and  sometimes  with  catch  -  words  con 
stantly  repeated,  so  as  to  give  time  to  the 
improvisator  to  think  out  the  following 
lines,  or  to  the  singer  to  rest  his  voice  or 
revive  his  memory.  In  Italy,  as  you 
know,  the  improvisator  is  always  accom 
panied  by  a  guitar  and  mandoline,  which 
bourdonnent  their  little  phrase  between 
the  lines  or  the  stanzas,  and  fill  up  the 
gaps.  But  in  serious  poems  of  the  pres 
ent  day,  written  to  be  read  and  not  sung, 
this  repetition  of  the  bourdon  without  the 
song  is  a  stumbling  block  and  an  offense, 
and  often  a  mere  affectation. 

She.  None  the  less  Shakespeare  uses  it. 

He.  I  know  he  does,  here  and  there  in 
his  sonnets,  but  they  were  to  be  sung,  not 
read;  for  instance, — 

"  Sing  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day." 

There  is  a  certain  grace  about  that,  I 
admit.  But  he  knew  how  and  when  to 


A   POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          25 

nse  it.  Nowadays  these  bourdons  bore 
me,  in  our  modern  poems.  Suppose,  for 
instance,  I  should  insist  in  some  passion 
ate  and  pathetic  poem  in  tripping  up  the 
reader  constantly  by  interpolating  such  a 
refrain  as  this,  — 

The  world  is  wide,  the  wind  is  cold, 
Ah  me,  the  new,  ah  me,  the  old. 

She.  There  is  too  much  meaning  in  it. 
It  is  not  a  success  as  a  refrain.  It  is  not 
so  good  as  your  description  of  the  Brah 
min  poet,  wherein,  indeed,  "his  define- 
ment  suffers  no  perdition  in  you." 

He.  Ah,  I  see  you  "  know  this  water- 
fly,"  our  friend  Osric,  as  Hamlet  jeering- 
ly  calls  him.  Let  me  see  —  how  does  he 
go  on,  "In  the  verity  of  extolment,  I 
take  him  to  be  a  soul  of  great  article  ; 
and  his  infusion  of  such  dearth  and  rare 
ness,  as,  to  make  true  diction  of  him,  his 
semblable  is  his  mirror." 

She.  "  Your  lordship  speaks  most  in 
fallibly  of  him."  Oh,  what  fun  Shake 
speare  is  f 

He.  Ah,  is  n't  he  ?  I  know  not  which 
most  surprises  me  in  him,  his  humor  or 
power  of  passion. 


26  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.  Oh,  don't  let  us  talk  of  Shake 
speare.  If  you  do  I  shall  hear  no  more 
of  jour  verses. 

He.   What  a  loss  ! 

She.  When  we  don't  get  what  we  want, 
it  is  always  a  loss,  whether  it  is  a  king 
dom  or  an  onion.  You  need  not  fish  for 
compliments  from  me.  I  promised  you 
to  be  honest. 

He.  When  one  promises  to  be  honest, 
one  means  to  be  severe. 

She.  Oh,  that  is  your  notion  of  it,  is 
it  ?  and  perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in  it. 
But  you  have  promised  to  amuse  me,  so 
now  read  me  something  more,  something 
silly,  if  you  can  deign  to  be  silly. 

He.  Ah,  that  is  cruel.  I  pride  myself 
on  my  silliness.  Shakespeare,  I  am  sure, 
was  silly;  in  fact,  Ben  Jonson,  or  was  it 
Fuller,  as  much  as  tells  us  so,  aliquid 
sufflimanandus  erat.  He  had  to  be  sup 
pressed. 

She.  There  you  are  back  on  Shake 
speare  again.  Read  your  verses  and  don't 
talk  about  him  now. 

He.  In  a  minute  ;  but  first  let  me 
read  these  two  sonnets  about  our  great 
poets. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.  27 

Whose  are  those  forms  august  that,  in  the 
press 

And  busy  blames  and  praises  of  to-day, 

Stand  so  serene  above  lif e's  fierce  affray 

With  ever  youthful  strength  and  loveli 
ness  ? 

Those  are  the  mighty  makers,  whom  no 
stress 

Of  time  can  shame,  nor  fashion  sweep 
away, 

Whom  art  begot  on  nature  in  the  play 

Of  healthy  passion,  scorning  base  excess. 

Rising  perchance  in  mists,  and  half  ob 
scure 

When  up  the  horizon  of  their  age  they 
came, 

Brighter  with  years  they  shine  in  steadier 
light, 

Great  constellations  that  will  aye  en 
dure, 

Though  myriad  meteors  of  ephemeral 
fame 

Across  them  flash,  to  vanish  into  night. 

Such  was  our  Chaucer  in  the  early  prime 
Of  English  verse,  who  held  to  Nature's 

hand 
And  walked  serenely  through  its  morning 

land, 


28  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Gladsome    and  hale,  brushing  its  dewy 

rime. 
And  such  was  Shakespeare,  whose  strong 

soul  could  climb 
Steeps  of  sheer  terror,  sound  the  ocean 

grand 
Of    passion's    deeps,    or    over    Fancy's 

strand 
Trip  with  his  fairies,  keeping  step  and 

time. 
His,  too,  the  power  to  laugh  out  full  and 

clear, 

With  unembittered  joyance,  and  to  move 
Along  the  silent,  shadowy  paths  of  love 
As  tenderly  as  Dante,  whose  austere, 
Stern  spirit  through  the   worlds  below, 

above, 
Unsmiling  strode,  to    tell  their  tidings 

here. 

She.  Very  good.  Yes,  I  am  glad  I 
did  not  drive  you  away  from  Shake 
speare;  though  when  you  get  on  this 
theme  you  never  come  to  an  end,  and  I 
was  afraid  — 

He.  He  never  came  to  an  end. 

She.  You  have  said  quite  enough  about 
him  in  your  two  sonnets.  And  you  must 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.  29 

give  me  a  copy  of  them  to  think  over  at 
my  leisure.  Will  you  ? 

He.  I  am  only  too  happy  that  you 
should  think  them  worth  having. 

She.  Well,  I  do.  Now  for  some  silly 
verses. 

He.  Here  are  some  silly  lines  I  once 
wrote  at  the  request  of  a  friend,  as  an 
autograph  (they  even  ask  autographs 
from  me  now,  —  don't  laugh)  for  a  young 
girl  whose  very  name  was  unknown  to 
me.  "  Pray  give  me  your  autograph  for 
a  dear  little  friend  of  mine,"  she  wrote, 
and  I  sent  her  this:  — 

Oh  lovely  Annie  or, 
Jenny,  or  Fanny,  or 

Lily,  or  Bessie,  for  whom  youths  are  rav 
ing* 

Love  while  your  youth  you  own, 
For  let  the  truth  be  known, 
Nothing  in  old  age   is   half  worth  the 
having. 

She.   How  do  you  know  ? 

He.  I  guess;  one^  is  never  so  old  as 
when  one  is  young. 

She.  Nor  so  young  as  when  one  is  oldj 
perhaps,  sometimes.    But  go  on. 


30  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Then  all  regretting 
But  never  forgetting, 
Longing  for    that  which    has    vanished 

away, 

Life  creeps  on  wearily, 
Ah  !  we  cry  drearily, 
Would  I  were  young  again,  careless  and 
gay! 

She.  As  if  one  ever  were  really  —  but 
as  if  one  ever  really  —  but  no  matter  — 
but  no  matter;  go  on. 

But  when  the  hair  is  gray, 

When  the  teeth  fall  away, 
Loving    and    kissing    we    lay    on    life's 
shelves; 

Old  age  in  others  is 

Charming,  in  mothers  is 
Lovely,  but  somehow 't  is  not  in  ourselves. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  fame, 

'T  is  but  to  be  a  name, 
'T  is  an  old  story,  that  tires  when 't  is  told. 

Careless  and  happy, 

Not  hairless  and  cappy, 
Love  me,  my  darling,  before  you  grow 
old. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          31 

She.  You  call  that  silly  ?  In  my  opiiu 
ion  it 's  the  wisest  thing  you  have  yet 
read.  Was  not  your  young  friend 
pleased  ? 

He.  I  don't  know.  She  never  told  me. 
She  "  let  concealment  like  a  worm  i'  the 
bud  feed  on  her  damask  cheek."  Whether 
"she  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument 
smiling  at  grief  "  after  receiving  it,  I  can 
not  say.  I  like  to  be  accurate  in  these 
matters,  and  as  far  as  concealment  goes 
I  am  sure,  but  about  the  monument  I 
am  doubtful. 

She.  I  should  have  been  more  grateful, 
but  it  is  so  difficult  to  give  expression  to 
one's  feelings.  I  suppose  she  was  afraid 
to  write  to  you. 

He.  No  doubt  I  am  a  terrible  person, 
And  I  don't  wonder  she  feared  me;  it 
gratified  my  pride.  I  extend  my  hand 
and  bless  her  like  a  —  what  shall  we  say, 
father,  or  uncle  ? 

She.  Uncle,  I  think,  is  best;  unless  that 
involves  leaving  her  a  fortune.  The  re 
lation  is  perilous,  one  expects  a  great  deal 
from  one's  uncle.  On  the  whole,  perhaps 
you  had  better  stick  to  "  friend."  That 
means  so  much,  and  then  again  so  little. 


82  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

He.  There  is  something  so  patronizing 
in  calling  any  one  your  young  friend.  It 
assumes  such  a  superiority  that  my  mod 
esty  shrinks  from  it. 

She.  Ay,  but  call  yourself  her  old 
friend;  and  what  a  difference  !  Now,  I 
am  your  old  friend. 

He.  Yes,  so  you  are,  considering  — 

She.   Considering  what  ? 

He.  Considering  that  you  are  still  so 
^oung. 

She.  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to 
Jrou  to  write  anything  for  me. 

He.  Will  you  take  this  ? 

Little  we  know  what  secret  influence 

A  word,  a  glance,  a  casual  tone  may 

bring, 
That,  like  the  wind's  breath  on  a  chorded 

string, 
May  thrill  the  memory,  touch  the  inner 

sense, 
And  waken  dreams  that  come  we  know 

not  whence; 
Or  like  the  light  touch  of  a  bird's  swift 

whig, 

The  lake's  still  face  a  moment  visiting, 
Leave  pulsing  rings,  when  he  has  van* 

ished  thence. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          33 

You  looked  into  my  eyes  an   instant's 

space, 

And  all  the  boundaries  of  time  and  place 
Broke  down,  and  far  into  a  world  beyond 
Of  buried  hopes  and  dreams  my  soul  had 

sight, 

Where  dim  desires  long  lost,  and  memo 
ries  fond, 
Rose  in  a  soft  mirage  of  tender  light. 

She.   Ah,  you  never  wrote  that  to  me. 

He.  I  might  have  written  it  to  you, 
and  it  is  all  the  same  as  if  I  did.  It  is 
yours  now. 

She.  I  accept  it,  and  thank  you.  Oh, 
how  true  it  is  that  a  glance,  a  word,  an 
inflection  of  voice,  will  sometimes  carry 
the  spirit  so  far,  far  away,  and  break 
down  all  the  barriers  of  the  present,  and 
evoke  dim  memories  of  the  past  long 
buried  out  of  sight !  How  little  we  know 
what  secret  unconscious  influences  we  ex 
ert  !  We  are  for  the  most  part  islands  ; 
spiritual  islands,  to  which  no  other  soul 
can  really  reach  save  by  a  tone  or  a  glance. 

He.  And  never  do  we  feel  this  more 
than  in  our  deep  sorrows.  Then  how  ter 
ribly  far  we  are  from  every  one;  how 
3 


34  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

isolated;  how  alone.  No  one  can  help  us 
then.  And  equally  in  our  love.  Intimate 
and  intense  as  it  may  be,  the  lover  and 
the  loved  are  always  two.  Their  two 
spirits  can  no  more  intermingle  than  their 
bodies  can.  Stop  !  I  have  some  verses 
here,  somewhere,  apropos  to  this.  Ah, 
here  they  are. 

Thy  lips  touched  mine,  there  flashed  a 
sudden  fire 

From  brain  to  brain; 
Oh,  was  it  joy,  or  did  that  wild  desire 

Turn  it  to  pain  ? 

The  thirst  of  soul  Love's  rapture  could 

not  slake 

While  we  were  twain; 
Of  our  two  beings,   one  we  could  not 

make, 
And  that  was  pain. 

She.  You  have  not  quite  succeeded  in 
that  poem. 

He.  No,  I  know  it.  It  is  not  what  it 
ought  to  be,  and  nothing  on  earth  is;  but 
you  know  I  am  not  professing  to  read 
you  poems,  but  only  scraps  and  sketches, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         35 

and  not  because  I  think  them  worth 
much,  but  because  you  asked  me  to  read 
them. 

She.  You  see,  I  am  honest  with  you. 
Your  idea  is  good,  but  you  might  express 
it  better.  It  is  worth  trying  for  again. 

He.  Perhaps;  but  ideas  come  and  go, 
and  if  one  does  not  seize  them  at  once 
they  are  gone,  and  they  never  come  back 
with  the  same  freshness  and  accidental- 
ity.  They  come  and  sing  a  little  song  to 
us,  and  sometimes  we  hear  it  right  and 
sometimes  wrong;  and  there  is  no  more 
virtue  in  us,  if  we  do  not  catch  it  right 
at  first;  or,  to  use  another  metaphor,  if 
we  break  a  flower  when  we  pluck  it,  we 
cannot  mend  it  again.  Accident,  Fate, 
Fortune,  anything  you  please,  throws  us 
at  times  her  ball,  and  we  either  catch  it, 
or  we  do  not.  If  we  do  not  — 

She.   We  make  a  mis-take. 

He.   Is  that  a  pun  ? 

She.  I  did  not  mean  it  for  one,  but 
simply  for  an  analysis  of  the  word,  as 
holding  a  philosophical  truth. 

He.  As  far  as  life  is  concerned,  every 
thing  seems  in  that  sense  to  be  a  mistake. 
But  here  is  another  kind  of  a  mistake, 
which  may  amuse  you. 


36  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

How  your  sweet  face  revives  again 
The  dear  old  time,  my  Pearl,  — 

If  I  may  use  the  pretty  name, 
I  called  you  when  a  girl. 

You  are  so  young;  while  Time  of  me 

Has  made  a  cruel  prey, 
It  has  forgotten  you,  nor  swept 

One  grace  of  youth  away. 

The  same  sweet  face,  the  same  sweet 
smile, 

The  same  lithe  figure,  too  !  — 
What  did  you  say ?     "It  was  perchance 

Your  mother  that  I  knew  ?  " 

Ah,  yes,  of  course,  it  must  have  been, 

And  yet  the  same  you  seem, 
And  for  a  moment,  all  these  years 

Fled  from  me  like  a  dream. 

Then  what  your  mother  would  not  give, 

Permit  me,  dear,  to  take, 
The  old  man's  privilege  —  a  kiss  — 

Just  for  your  mother's  sake. 

She.   Ha,  ha  !    That  was  a  pretty  mis 
take;  but  you  got  out  of  it  fairly  well. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         37 

He.  Yes;  I  got  the  old  man's  privi 
lege,  but  I  don't  know  that  that  is  a  great 
consolation.  A  man  begins  to  feel  old, 
really,  when  the  young  girls  are  not  shy 
of  him,  and  let  him  kiss  them  without 
making  any  fuss  about  it,  but  almost  as  a 
matter  of  course.  As  long  as  they  blush 
and  draw  back,  he  flatters  himself  that 
he  is  not  really  so  old  after  all.  The  last, 
worst  phase  is  when  they  don't  wait  for 
him,  but  come  and  kiss  him  of  their  own 
accord.  Oh,  that  is  too  much.  Gout  is 
nothing  to  that,  nor  white  hairs. 

She.  Yes,  I  see;  this  last  kiss  is  differ 
ent  from  the  one  in  the  former  poem. 

He.  Rather !  There  are  as  many  kinds 
of  kisses  as  of  characters.  The  most 
foolish  of  all  kisses  is  that  formality  be 
tween  women,  who  go  through  the  cere 
mony  of  rubbing  their  noses  against  each 
other's  cheeks  and  calling  it  a  kiss. 

She.  Persons  who  are  constantly  kiss 
ing  and  calling  everybody  dear  are  my 
aversion.  A  kiss  should  really  mean 
something,  and  when  everybody  is  dear, 
nobody  is.  For  instance,  there  is  our 
friend ,  who  is  so  full  of  tender  dem 
onstrations,  and  never  speaks  of  anybody 


38  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

without  an  endearing  epithet,  and  who 
really  is  a  totally  neutral  being,  without 
color  or  real  feeling  or  possibility  of  pas 
sion,  and  who  squanders  her  epithets  and 
kisses  for  just  what  they  are  worth, — 
nothing.  And  yet  she  is  perfectly  good- 
natured. 

He.  Ah,  yes,  good-natured.  Univer 
sally  good-natured  persons  are  generally 
shallow  and  heartless. 

She.   Oh !  no,  no.   That  is  going  too  far. 

He.  Perhaps;  there  are  exceptions,  I 
dare  say.  But  those  gay,  bright,  sunny 
little  bodies  that  sparkle  along  in  life, 
and  are  always  laughing  and  always  gay, 
are,  for  the  most  part,  like  running 
streams,  —  the  shallower  they  are,  the 
greater  noise  and  babble  they  make. 
Rivers  sweep  on  calmly  and  deeply. 

She.  Don't  be  led  astray  by  a  meta 
phor.  They  are  dangerous  things.  They 
often  confuse  the  judgment  by  keeping  it 
fixed  on  two  things  at  once.  The  illus 
tration  blinds  the  eye  to  the  thing  illus 
trated. 

He.   But  all  speech  is  metaphor. 

She.  And  all  speech  is  dangerous.  Si 
lence  is  golden,  speech  is  silvern. 


A   POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         39 

He.  I  wish  we  could  keep  that  word 
silvern.  We  say  brazen,  golden,  cedarn, 
and  ought  to  say  silvern.  It  is  the  true 
old  English  word.  And  so  is  eyen  for 
eyes,  as  we  say  oxen  not  oxes.  We  have 
already  too  many  final  s's  in  our  English 
plurals.  But  to  go  back  to  what  we  wer$ 
saying,  I  don't  seriously  care  for  merely 
good-natured  people.  I  prefer  those  who 
are  varied  in  feeling  and  stiller  of  nature 
and  stronger  of  character.  I  could  not 
love  the  gay-hearted  creature  who  would 
bury  you  without  a  tear. 

She.  But  why,  why  should  there  be 
any  necessary  inconsistency  between  good 
nature  and  deep  feeling  ? 

He.  I  don't  know  why,  I  merely  state 
the  fact.  As  far  as  my  experience  goes, 
I  have  so  found  it. 

She.  All  things  are  good  in  their  place. 
The  gay,  good-natured  people  lend  life  to 
society,  and  sunshine  to  home.  It  would 
be  dismal  to  have  society  composed  only 
of  people  with  deep  feelings,  and  perhaps 
even  you  will  admit  that  at  home  there 
is  nothing  more  delightful  than  a  bright 
sunny  nature,  which  sees  good  in  all. 

He.   I  give  it  up.     I  won't  argue  with 


40  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

you,  but  you  know  what  I  mean;  and  I 
repeat,  those  that  love  everybody  love 
nobody. 

She.  There  are  all  sorts  of  tastes;  and 
all  sorts  of  persons  are  required  to  make 
up  a  world. 

He.  There  are  prickly  thistles,  and 
bright-eyed  daisies,  and  stately  scentless 
camellias;  and  there  is  the  rose, — I  pre 
fer  the  rose.  And  here  is  a  "copy  of 
verses,"  as  our  fathers  called  them,  on 
this  subject. 

When  Nature  had  shaped  her  rustic  beau 
ties,  — 

The  bright-eyed  daisy,  the  violet  sweet, 
The  blushing  poppy  that  nods  and  trem 
bles 
In  its  scarlet  hood  among  the  wheat,  — 

She  paused  and  pondered;  —  and  then  she 
fashioned 

The  scentless  camellia  proud  and  cold, 
The  spicy  carnation  freaked  with  passion, 

The  lily  pale  for  an  angel  to  hold. 

All  were  fair,  yet  something  was  want 
ing* 
Of  freer  perfection,  of  larger  repose; 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         41 

And  again  she  paused,  — then  in  one  glad 

moment 

She  breathed  her  whole  soul  into  the 
rose. 

With  you,  dear  Violet,  Daisy,  and  Poppy, 

Pleasant  it  was  hi  the  fields  to  play, 
In  the  careless  and  heartless  joy  of  child 
hood, 

When  an   hour  was  as  long  as  man 
hood's  day. 

And  with  you,  O  passionate,  bright  Car 
nation, 

A  boy's  brief  love  for  a  time  I  knew, 
And  you  I  admired  proud  Lady  Camellia, 
And,  Lily,  I  sang  hi  the  church  with 
you. 

But  O  my  Rose,  my  frank,  free-hearted, 

My  perfect  above  all  conscious  arts, 
What  were  they  beside  thee,  O  Rose,  my 

darling, 

To  you   I  have   given    my   heart    of 
hearts. 

She.  That  is  pretty;  I  like  that.  You 
might  illustrate  it  with  so  many  pretty 
drawings. 


42  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

He.  Will  you  do  it? 

She.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  be  able. 
But  I  can  see  so  many  pictures  one  might 
make,  that  if  nobody  else  will  do  it,  I 
will  try  my  hand.  And  first  I  will  make 
the  children,  Poppy,  Daisy,  and  Violet, 
playing  in  the  garden  together,  and  then 
the  romantic  flirtation  of  Carnation  and 
her  young  lover  in  the  wood.  And  then 
the  dance  with  Lady  Camellia,  her  own 
white  flower  in  her  hair,  and  he  talking 
to  her  half -hidden  behind  a  curtain;  and 
then  the  hymn  in  the  church  with  Lily. 
And  then,  oh  then,  Kosej  and  where  shall 
we  place  her  ?  On  a  beautiful,  smooth- 
shaven  English  lawn,  sitting  or  strolling 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  perfumed  limes 
in  early  summer  morning,  when  the  night 
ingale  sings  in  the  trees,  and  the  little 
birds  are  hopping  along  the  greensward, 
and  the  breeze  is  rustling  in  the  dewy 
leaves  ?  Or  shall  it  be  at  twilight  in  some 
shadowy  lane,  when  the  eglantine  wavers 
out,  spotting  with  its  delicate  blossoms 
the  hawthorn  hedges,  and  the  rose-clouds 
are  hanging  over  the  sunken  sun,  and  the 
daffodil  sky  in  the  west  is  paling  into 
soft  grays,  while  in  the  east  the  low  full 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         43 

moon  is  softly  burning  through  the  dis 
tant  woods  ?  Or  shall  they  both  be  sit 
ting  by  a  window,  looking  out  over  a 
sweet,  far  landscape,  with  snowy  curtains 
waving  in  the  breath  of  the  June  air,  and 
a  vase  of  roses  near  by  scenting  the  at 
mosphere  ?  Say,  which  shall  it  be  ? 

He.  Any,  or  all.  That  would  be  like 
making  music  for  my  words,  embalming 
them,  enchanting  them,  giving  them  the 
life  and  beauty  they  want,  clothing  their 
nakedness  with  singing  robes,  till  all  the 
world  should  listen  and  give  the  words 
the  charm  that  the  singing  only  owns. 
Will  you  do  this  ? 

She.   I  will  try. 

He.  I  shall  hold  you  to  your  promise, 
but  I  know  you  never  will  perform  it. 

She.   I  only  said  I  would  try. 

He.  And  now  I  will  give  you  another 
picture  to  paint  for  me.  It  is  towards 
twilight,  and  two  lovers  are  in  a  boat; 
silent,  alone,  dreaming,  their  oars  sus 
pended;  and  he  leans  forward  and  gazes 
at  her,  and  she  is  looking  over  the  side  of 
the  boat  into  the  waters,  in  which  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  on  the  banks  and 
the  golden  clouds  in  the  sky  are  softly  re 
flected. 


44  HE  AND  SHE,-  OR, 

Afloat  on  the  brim  of  a  placid  stream, 
Pleasant  it  is  to  lie  and  dream, 
With  heaven  above,  and  far  below 
The  deeps  of  death  —  sad  deeps  that  know 
The  still  reflections  of  earth  and  sky 
In  their  silent,  serene  obscurity. 
And  hanging  thus  upon  Life's  thin  rim, 
Death  seems  so  sweet  in  that  silvery,  dim, 
Deep  world  below,  that  it  seems  half-best 
To  sink  into  it  and  there  find  rest, 
Both,  both  together,  ere  age  can  come, 
And  loving  has  lost  its  perfect  bloom. 
One  tilt,  dear  love,  and  we  both  might  be 
Beyond  earth's  sorrows  eternally. 

She.  There  is  something  in  that;  never 
is  love  so  secure  but  that  there  is  the 
menace  of  change,  the  shadow  of  doubt, 
the  fear  of  something,  however  vague  it 
be.  There  is  no  permanent  rising  above 
life's  levels.  When  the  wave  is  at  its 
utmost  height,  it  falls  shivered.  And 
then,  again,  you  have  expressed  that 
strange,  haunting  desire,  that  is  almost 
irrepressible  at  times,  to  fling  one's  self 
down  a  precipice  on  whose  edge  we  stand, 
or  to  sink  into  the  depths  of  some  silent, 
glassy  stream  over  which  we  are  gliding. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         45 

Yes,  at  the  height  of  pleasure  comes  the 
longing  to  stop  life  there. 

He.  It  is  strange  how  at  the  very  cul 
mination  of  exalted  feeling,  when  the  sen 
sibilities  are  all  alive,  fate  seems  to  take  a 
special  pleasure  in  doing  them  some  pro 
saic  violence.  How  the  commonplace  and 
even  contemptible  facts  of  life  will  rush 
in  athwart  us  in  our  most  poetic  moods, 
and  compel  us  to  laugh,  despite  our  an 
noyance.  The  lover  is  just  declaring  his 
passion  to  some  trembling  girl,  for  in 
stance,  when  Bridget  opens  the  door  to 
say,  "  Please  Miss,  the  butcher  says  shall 
he  leave  a  leg  of  mutton,  or  will  you  have 
a  pair  of  chickens;  "  —  or  just  as  the  poet 
is  in  the  height,  let  us  call  it,  of  his  inspi 
ration,  some  "  person  from  Porlock  "  will 
come  in  on  business  matters,  to  try  on 
one's  new  shoes,  perhaps,  and  the  vision 
of  Kubla  Khan  disappears  beyond  the  ho 
rizon  of  recovery. 

She.  It  is  lucky  that  the  "  person  from 
Porlock  "  was  anonymous,  or  hundreds  of 
us  would  have  taken  his  life. 

He.  I  wonder  if  he  ever  existed.  It 
would  be  just  like  Coleridge  to  have  in 
vented  him  as  an  excuse  for  his  own  lazi- 


46  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.  Whether  he  existed  or  not,  he 
exists  no  longer,  so  let  us  think  no 
more  of  him,  since  both  he  and  Coleridge 
have  gone  beyond  recall,  and  no  one  can 
ever  finish  that  exquisite  fragment  which 
he  interrupted. 

He.  Ah  !  who  knows  ?  Martin  Far- 
quhar  Tupper  finished  his  «  Christabel." 

She.  So  he  did,  in  more  senses  than 
one,  but  there  are  few  men  so  brave  as 
he.  What  is  that  you  have  in  your  hand 
now  ?  Read  it. 

He.  Perhaps  you  won't  think  it  apro 
pos;  but  here  it  is:  — 

Do  you  remember  that  most  perfect  night, 

In  the  full  flush  of  June, 
When  the  wide  heavens  were  tranced  in 
silver  light 

Of  the  sad  patient  moon  ? 
Silent  we  sat,  awed  by  a  strange  unrest; 

The  fathomless,  far  sky 
Our  very  life  absorbed,  our  thoughts  op 
pressed, 

By  its  immensity. 

Lost  in  that  infinite  vast,  how  idle  seemed 
The  best  of  human  speech, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         47 

Earth  scarcely  breathed,  so  silently  she 

dreamed, 

Save  when  from  some  far  reach 
The  faint  wind  sighed,  and  stirred  the 

slumbering  trees, 
And  shadowy  stretch  and  plain 
Seemed  haunted  by  unuttered  mysteries 
Night  on  its  life  had  lain. 

We  knew  not  what  we  were,  or  where  we 

went, 

Borne  by  some  unseen  power, 
Nor  in  what  dream-shaped   realms  our 

spirits  spent 

That  long,  yet  brief  half  hour; 
I  only  know  that,  as  a  star  from  high 

Slides  down  the  ether  thin, 
We  shot  to  earth,  roused  by  a  startling 

cry, 
"  You  're  getting  cold  —  come  in." 

She.  Yes,  it  always  happens  so.  But 
why  did  you  say  these  lines  were  not 
apropos  to  what  we  were  saying  ? 

He.  So  as  not  to  let  you  into  the  se 
cret,  and  carefully  extract  the  sting  of 
reality  from  my  verses.  Confess  that 
you  were  not  at  all  prepared  for  its  con 
clusion. 


48  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.  I  was  not,  and  I  can't  help  think 
ing  it  was  a  little  shabby  in  you  so  to  end 
it. 

He.  The  world  now  demands  realism, 
and  here  you  have  it. 

She.  But  I  don't  want  it;  I  have 
enough  of  it  in  life  ;  I  don't  want  it  ii> 
poetry.  I  like  to  have  my  romantic  and 
ideal  world,  and  to  keep  it  separated 
from  my  real  and  prosaic  one. 

He.  Will  this  please  you  better  ?  I 
have  already  given  you,  a  little  while  ago, 
the  longing  from  below  to  sink  into  the 
deep;  here  is  the  longing  from  above, 
which  may  serve  as  a  pendant. 

The  winds  are  forever  blowing,  blowing, 
The  streams  are  forever  flowing,  flowing, 
And  all  things  forever  going,  going, 

Nothing  on  earth  is  at  rest,  — 
Ever  departing,  never  abiding, 
Sliding  away,  and  onward  gliding, 

Alike  the  worst,  the  best. 

The  sky  is  a  glacier  paved  with  snow, 
And  heaped  with  many  a  crowded  floe, 
And  here  and  there  a  rift  breaks  through, 
Showing  behind  an  abyss  of  blue, 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         49 

A  tender  silence  beyond,  afar, 

Out  of  the  tumult  and  rush,  and  far 

Of  the  winds  that  drive  and  rage  below, 

And  beat  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  for  all  we  hope,  and  more  than  we 
know, 

There,  perchance,  is  rest. 

She.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  rest  we 
want,  but  rather  security  against  chance, 
against  the  slings  and  arrows  of  out 
rageous  fortune,  against  the  irritations  of 
daily  life,  and  the  petty  needs  which 
crowd  about  us,  mendicants  for  our  time 
and  thoughts.  There  is  nothing  we  really 
own.  Joy  is  only  lent  to  us  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  taken  away,  and  over 
everything  broods  fear. 

He.  Since  we  are  in  this  vein,  here  is 
a  sonnet  to  the  purpose,  and  specially  for 
to-day. 

Glad  is  the  sunshine,  perfect  is  the  day, 
A  pearl  of  days,  a  flawless  chrysolite 
The  sky  above  us  lifts  its  dome  of  light, 
And  loitering  clouds  along  its  blue  fields 

stray, 

Unshepherded  by  winds  that  far  away 
4 


50  HE  AND  SHE:   OR, 

Are  sleeping  in  their  caves.     This  pure 

delight, 

This  silent,  peaceful  gladness  infinite, 
Is  troubled  by  no  sorrow,  no  dismay. 
Yes,  for  o'er  all  the  shadow  of  a  fear 
Is  brooding,  that  the  restless  spirit  knows, 
The  doubting  human  spirit  that  forecasts, 
Even  in  the  brightest  that  surrounds  us 

here, 
The  inevitable  change,  —  for  nought  life 

knows 
Is  fixed  and  permanent,  nought  lives  that 

lasts. 

She.  Very  sad,  but  unfortunately  very 
true.  But  what  is  the  use  of  weighing  it 
and  pondering  it  ?  Let  us  enjoy  Life's 
beauty  as  it  comes,  and  not  mar  it  by  our 
melancholy  previsions.  Take  the  bitter 
out  of  my  spirit  that  you  have  now  in 
fused  there,  by  something  a  little  brighter. 

He.  I  am  afraid  I  have  nothing  ;  my 
portfolio  seems  suddenly  to  have  gone 
into  mourning.  But  stop  :  here  is  a  little 
trifle,  apropos  to  what  you  were  saying  a 
few  moments  ago  about  kissing,  which 
may  amuse  you.  You  remember  the  old 
Italian  proverb,  "Un  bacio  dato  non  e 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         51 

mai  perduto."    This  is  an  illustration  of 
it:  — 


Because  we  once  drove  together 
In  the  moonlight  over  the  snow, 

With  the  sharp  bells  ringing  their  tink 
ling  chime, 
So  many  a  year  ago, 

So,  now,  as  I  hear  them  jingle, 
The  winter  comes  back  again, 

Though  the  summer  stirs  in  the  heavy 

trees, 
And  the  wild  rose  scents  the  lane. 

We  gather  our  furs  around  us, 
Our  faces  the  keen  air  stings, 

And  noiseless  we  fly  o'er  the  snow-hushed 

world 
Almost  as  if  we  had  wings. 

Enough  is  the  joy  of  mere  living, 
Enough  is  the  blood's  quick  thrill ; 

We  are  simply  happy,  I  care  not  why, 
We  are  happy  beyond  our  will. 

The  trees  are  with  icicles  jeweled, 
The  walls  are  o'er-surfed  with  snow; 


52  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

The  houses  with  marble  whiteness  are 

roofed, 
In  their  windows  the  home-lights  glow. 

Through  the  tense,  clear  sky  above  us 
The  keen  stars  flash  and  gleam, 

And  wrapped  in   their  silent  shroud  of 

snow 
The  broad  fields  lie  and  dream. 

And  jingling  with  low,  sweet  clashing 
Ring   the    bells    as    our    good    horse 

goes, 
And  tossing  his  head,  from  his  nostrils 

red 
His  frosty  breath  he  blows. 

And  closely  you  nestle  against  me, 
While  around  your  waist  my  arm 

I  have   slipped  —  't  is    so  bitter,  bitter 

cold  — 
It  is  only  to  keep  us  warm. 

We  talk,  and  then  we  are  silent; 

And  suddenly  —  you  know  why  — 
I  stooped  —  could  I  help  it  ?    You  lifted 
your  face  — 

We  kissed — there  was  nobody  nigh. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.         53 

And  no  one  was  ever  the  wiser, 
And  no  one  was  ever  the  worse; 

The  skies  did  not  fall,  —  as  perhaps  they 

ought,  — 
And  we  heard  no  paternal  curse. 

I  never  told  it  — did  you,  dear  ?  — 

From  that  day  unto  this  ; 
But  my  memory  keeps  in  its  inmost  re 
cess, 

Like  a  perfume,  that  innocent  kiss. 

I  dare  say  you  have  forgotten, 

'T  was  so  many  a  year  ago  ; 
Or  you  may  not  choose  to  remember  it, 

Time  may  have  changed  you  so. 

The  world  so  chills  us  and  kills  us, 
Perhaps  you  may  scorn  to  recall 

That  night,  with  its  innocent  impulse,  — 
Perhaps  you  '11  deny  it  all. 

But  if  of  that  fresh,  sweet  nature 

The  veriest  vestige  survive, 
STou  remember  that  moment's  madness,  -~ 

You  remember  that  moonlight  drive. 

She.  I  like  that. 


54  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

He.  So  did  I.  You  see,  I  always  re 
membered  it. 

She.  Nonsense !  You  never  got  it, 
really. 

He.  No  matter.  I  remember  it.  Don't 
you? 

She.  I  decline  to  answer.  Bead  me 
something  else  —  immediately. 

He.  Here  is  a  little  omelette  souffle\ 
not  worth  serving  up.  But  — 

She.  Don't  make  apologies,  but  read 
it, — please  ? 

He.  Here  it  is. 

I  once   laughed  as  loud  as  the  best  of 

them  all, 
Jenny,  my  Jenny, 
I  could  foot  it  as  lightly  as  they  at  the 

ball, 

Jenny,  proud  Jenny. 
But  my  foot  now  is  heavy,  I  wander 

apart, 
And  the  tears  in  my  eyelids  will  gather 

and  start; 

For,  while  sweetly  you  're  smiling 
And  others  beguiling, 
Don't  you  see,  my  dear  Jenny,  you're 
breaking  my  heart  ? 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         55 

A  rosebud  she  wore  in  her  bonny  brown 

hair, 

Jenny,  my  Jenny, 
When  she   looked  at  me  first  with  her 

sweet  saucy  air, 
Jenny,  dear  Jenny, 
So  red  were  her  lips,  and  so  lithe  was  her 

waist, 
That  they  seemed  only  made  to  be  kissed 

and  embraced, 

And  a  sudden,  wild  madness, 
Of  longing  and  gladness, 
Thrilled  through  all  my  veins  with  a  rap 
turous  haste. 

There  's  Rob,  and  there 's  Bob  at  her  side 

that  I  see, 
Jenny,  my  Jenny, 
And  she  smiles  just  as  sweetly  on  them 

as  on  me, 
Jenny,  gay  Jenny. 
But  why  should  I  care  ?  There  are  others 

as  fair 
Who  will  give  me  their  smiles,  and  their 

favors  to  wear, 
And  where  's  the  use  sighing 
Just  like  a  child  crying, 
For  the  jilt  of  the  moon,  far  away  in  the 
air. 


56  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

She.   The  grapes  were  green. 

He.   Precisely. 

She.  But  I  don't  care  for  that.  There 's 
nothing  in  it. 

He.  I  did  not  say  there  was.  I  said 
it  might  serve  as  a  trifle  to  take  the  bit-, 
ter  taste  out  of  your  mouth  —  a  punch  & 
la  Romaine,  with  just  a  little,  a  very  lit 
tle  spirit  in  it. 

She.  And  why  should  Jenny  have 
turned  her  face  or  her  heart  to  your 
young  man  ?  I  have  no  doubt  he  was  a 
horrible  bore.  Why  should  n't  she  dance 
with  those  pretty  fellows  Rob  and  Bob, 
who  were  so  full  of  fun  and  animal 
spirits,  while  your  young  man  was  moon 
ing  about  and  calling  her  a  jilt,  and  look- 
ing  unutterable  things  into  her  eyes  when 
he  did  come  near  her  and  trying  to  press 
her  hand  ?  I  have  no  pity  for  such  fellows. 
If  I  had  been  Jenny  I  should  have  turned 
round  on  him  and  said:  If  you  've  got 
anything  to  say,  for  heaven's  sake,  say  it, 
and  have  it  over.  Do  you  want  me  — 
yes  ?  Well,  I  don't  want  you.  Good-by. 
I  *m  engaged  for  the  next  waltz  to  Bob. 
I  think  that  would  have  settled  matters. 

He.  Yes,  I  should  have  thought  it 
would.  But  it  did  n't. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         57 

She.  Ah,  so  she  did  say  so.  I  like  her 
for  it.  That  is  what  I  call  being  frank 
and  outspoken.  But  such  fellows  will 
never  take  no  for  an  answer. 

He.  No,  indeed.  She  married  him  at 
last. 

She.  What  a  fool !  And  I  hope  was 
unhappy  all  her  life. 

He,  I  came  away  at  about  that  time, 
and  cannot  tell. — Here  is  the  kind  of 
woman  you  would  like. 

She.  Now,  you  are  going  to  read  some 
thing  disagreeable. 

He.  No.  This  was  a  pretty,  nice,  little 
iceberg  I  knew  when  she  was  about  forty. 

Yes  !  she  has  lived,  lived  what  she  called 

her  life, 
Feebly  enjoyed    and    suffered    trivial 

pain; 
Years  have  slipped  by  and  left  no  scars  of 

strife 
Upon  her  little  heart  and  little  brain. 

No  strain  or  strife  of  passion  has  she 

known  ; 

Like  a  pale  flower  to  which  no  scent  is 
given, 


58  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

No  vivid    hues,  she    in  the   shade  has 

grown, 

Knowing  no  hell,  and  worlds  away  from 
heaven. 

She    might   have  fallen  with    a    richer 

sense, 

But  what  temptation  is  she  never  felt 
Cold,  pure  as  snow,  was  her  blank  inno 
cence, 

So  cold,  so  pure,  it  knew  not  how  to 
melt. 

She.  I  beg  to  ask  why  you  said  that 
was  a  woman  after  my  mind.  Did  you 
mean  to  insult  me  ? 

He.  Not  at  all.  I  think  she  is  a  speci 
men  woman,  without  a  fault.  What  can 
you  ask  more  ?  She  never  did  anything 
wrong.  She  was  so  smooth  and  cold  that 
vice  caromed  off  from  her  as  one  billiard 
ball  from  another.  What  do  you  accuse 
her  of? 

She.  I  think  you  once  wrote  some  verses 
like  these:  — 

As  for  a  heart  and  soul,  my  dear, 
You  have  not  enough  to  sin, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         59 

Outside  so  fair,  like  a  peach  you  are, 
With  a  stone  for  a  heart  within. 

That 's  your  idea  of  a  woman.    Is  it  ? 

He.  I  have  known  such  women,  who 
were  much  admired  by  your  sex,  and 
called  noble  and  pure. 

She.  And  all  you  men  admire  the  demi 
monde. 

He.  And  all  you  women  imitate  them 
in  their  manners,  and  particularly  in  their 
dress. 

She.  All  us  women  ? 

He.   All  us  men  ? 

She.   There  are  exceptions. 

He.  Well,  we  will  be  among  the  ex 
ceptions. 

She.  Have  you  any  other  portraits  ? 
They  amuse  me. 

He.  Yes,  here  is  one  from  life:  — 

Ah,  yes,  you  love  me,  so  you  say, 

But  yet  a  different  tale  I  read, 

In  those  still  eyes  so  cold  and  gray, 

In    that    ruled    brow   where    lightnings 

breed, 

In  those  carved  lips  so  set  and  thin, 
That  keep  their  secrets  firm  within, 


60  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

O'er  which  the  dazzling  smile  that  gleams, 
Keeps  flashing  like  the  auroral  gleams 
Across  the  still,  cold  northern  sky, 
As  silently  and  fitfully. 

You  say  you  love  me,  but  I  know 
"Tis  only  words  you  say;  no  snow 
Was  ever  colder.     Just  to  win 
You  want,  nor  would  you  count  it  sin, 
A  heart  to  break,  to  gratify 
A  whim  of  pride  and  vanity, 
So  you  might,  like  an  Indian,  add 
One  other  scalp  to  those  you  had; 
Nay  !  worse,  I  fear,  just  for  one  hour 
Of  wild  caprice,  to  prove  your  power, 
You  would  with  those  cold,  quiet  eyes, 
Ordain  my  sudden  sacrifice. 
Smile  as  you  saw  me  writhe  with  pain, 
And  say:  Just  torture  him  again, 
'T  is  comical  to  see  him  make 
Such  dreadful  faces  for  my  sake. 

All  this  I  see  and  know,  and  still 
My  love  is  all  beyond  my  will. 
Take  me  and  torture  me,  but  first 
One  real,  wild,  impassioned  burst 
Of  feeling  give  me.     Lift  your  face, 
And  let  me  for  a  moment's  space 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         61 

Look  tlirough  those  eyes,  so  calm  and 

still, 

Into  your  spirit's  inmost  deeps, 
And  see,  if  there  within  them  sleeps 
A  hidden  well  of  love,  a  rill 
Of  living  feeling,  or  —  and  this 
Is  what  I  fear —  a  dark  abyss 
Of  cold  and  silent  vanity, 
Of  selfish  thought  and  cruel  will,  — 
That  I  may  love,  or  turn  and  flee, 
And  save  myself  from  all  the  ill, 
The  pain,  the  bliss  of  loving  thee. 

She.  That  is  what  you  might  call  a 
charming  woman. 

He.  It  is  not  so  very  uncommon  a 
woman. 

She.  Woman  ?     It  is  a  devil,  rather. 

He.  Some  women  are  possessed  by  the 
devil  of  vanity,  and  have  no  feelings 
that  are  not  subordinated  to  it.  When  a 
woman  is  cruel,  she  is  more  cruel  than 
any  man.  We  men  can  forgive  every 
thing  to  passion;  women  don't  and  can't, 
but  men  do;  but  what  we  cannot  pardon 
is  that  cold,  cruel  vanity  which  is  as  in 
satiable  as  it  is  heartless.  But  here,  just 
for  a  contrast,  is  another  kind  of  woman, 


62  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

a  nice,  cheery  little  person,  whom  every 
body  likes,  a  brook-like  little  creature. 

She.  A  fool,  I  suppose,  from  your  pref 
ace.  You  men  always  like  fools. 

He.  Thanks. 

From  early  light  to  late  at  night, 

I  chatter,  chatter,  chatter, 
If  things  are  sad  or  things  are  bad, 

Dear  me  !  what  does  it  matter  ? 
The  livelong  day  to  me  is  gay, 

And  I  keep  always  laughing; 
The  world  at  best  is  such  a  jest, 

'Tis  only  fit  for  chaffing. 

Along  the  brim  of  life  to  skim, 

Not  in  its  depths  be  sinking, 
With  jest  and  smile  time  to  beguile, 

Not  bore  one's-self  with  thinking. 
To  touch  and  go,  and  to  and  fro, 

To  gossip,  talk,  and  tattle, 
To  hear  the  news,  and  to  amuse 

One's  world  with  endless  prattle, 

This  is  my  life  :  I  hate  all  strife, 
With  none  I  am  a  snarler ; 

I  like  to  joke  with  pleasant  folk 
In  any  pleasant  parlor. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         63 

And  when  the  day  has  slipped  away, 

Ere  I  blow  out  my  candle, 
I  sit  awhile,  and  muse  and  smile, 

O'er  that  last  bit  of  scandal. 

She.  Yes,  I  am  afraid,  I  am  afraid 
there  is  a  little  bit  of  truth  in  that. 

He.  A  little  bit?    No  more  ? 

She.  No,  these  prattlers  have  reactions 
of  sadness.  We  only  see  the  outside, 
the  world-side  of  them.  Be  sure  that 
sometimes,  out  of  mere  nervousness  and 
over-excitement,  they  cry  as  bitterly  as 
at  other  times  they  laugh  loudly.  And 
besides,  this  humor  is  oftentimes  put  on, 
just  like  one's  dress,  to  wear  into  society. 
These  creatures  have  the  reputation  of 
being  gay,  and  they  feel  called  upon  to 
act  up  to  their  reputation;  but  often  when 
they  are  alone  and  the  excitement  is  over, 
comes  a  corresponding  depression.  There 
is  always  sadness  underlying  all  humor. 
There  is  the  old  story,  you  know,  of  the 
clown  —  I  forget  his  name  —  who  nightly 
provoked  the  world's  laughter  in  the  ring, 
and  who  was  so  depressed  and  melancholy 
in  his  real  life  and  thought,  that  he  con 
sulted  a  physician  to  obtain  some  remedy 


64  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

for  his  hypochondria.  And  the  physician 
recommended  him  to  go  to  hear  Grimaldi 
(that  is  his  name,  I  remember  it  now). 
"  Ah,"  answered  he,  "  I  am  myself  that 
wretched  man." 

He.  It  is  possible  ;  but  such  stories  are 
generally  mere  inventions.  I  dare  say  it 
bored  him  to  go  over  the  same  old  jokes 
nightly,  but  that  is  natural.  As  to  his  be 
ing  an  extreme  hypochondriac,  I  do  not 
believe  it.  Besides,  his  case  is  different 
from  that  of  these  water-flies  that  skim 
and  skate  over  the  sunny  surface  of  life. 
One  might  as  well  try  to  make  a  cork 
sink  as  to  depress  them.  There  are  char 
acters  and  temperaments  incapable  of  pro 
found  feeling,  which  cannot  be  deeply 
affected  by  anything,  and  are  as  shallow 
as  they  are  bright.  If  these  persons  ever 
cry,  it  is  sympathetically  with  another,  for 
a  moment,  but  before  their  tears  are  dry 
they  are  laughing  again ;  and  as  for  this 
world,  they  think  with  Hamlet,  though  in 
a  different  sense,  that  "  there 's  nothing 
serious  in  it."  This  is  not  a  vice  in  them, 
it  proceeds  from  their  own  nature.  They 
cannot  help  it. 

She.   Yes,  I  dare  say  you  are  right  to  a 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          65 

certain  extent.  But  now,  read  me  some 
thing  else  of  a  different  kind. 

He.  I  have  two  or  three  love  poems. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  them  ? 

She.  Yes  —  perhaps.  I  am  a  little 
tired  of  love  poems. 

He.   Then  we  will  pass  them  by. 

She.  No;  on  the  whole,  I  will  hear 
them,  though  there  can  be  little  new  to 
say  on  that  subject. 

He.  Love  is  always  new.  It  never 
grows  old.  It  dies  when  it  is  young. 

She.  Not  real  love.  What  you  men  call 
love,  which  for  the  most  part  is  a  matter 
of  the  senses,  may;  but  what  we  women 
mean  by  love,  which  is  a  matter  of  senti 
ment  and  feeling,  is  very  long-lived. 

He.  Ah  ?  I  did  not  know  that  senti 
ment  and  feeling  belonged  only  to  your 
sex.  I  think  you  also,  sometimes,  love 
for  a  moment.  Listen  to  what  a  man 
says  on  this  subject ;  not  I,  of  course,  — 
I  know  your  love  lasts  forever,  —  but  that 
fellow  X.,  who  is  a  disbeliever  —  or  who 
was,  for  a  moment  —  and  I  call  the  poem, 
therefore,  "A  Moment." 


66  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

How  long  would  you  love  me  ?  A  life 
time  ?  Ah,  that  is  too  long ;  let  us 
say 

A  moment.  Life's  best 's  but  a  moment, 
and  life  itself  scarcely  a  day. 

Perhaps  you  might  love  me  that  moment; 
perhaps,  while  you  quaffed 

From  life's  brimming  cup,  with  your 
sweet  face  turned  up,  love's  exqui 
site  draught; 

All  the  spirit  insatiate  thirsting  its  sweet 
ness  to  drain, 

And  a  hurry  of  rapture  swift  rushing 
through  heart  and  through  brain; 

All  being  condensed  to  a  drop,  all  the 

soul,  all  the  sense, 
Interfused  as  by  fire,  intermingled  and 

throbbing  with  passion  intense ; 

Just  one  moment  of  Life's  culmination, 

its  waves'  utmost  height, 
While  it  lifts  its  green  cavern  of  opal  all 

sun-fringed,  in  quivering  light ;  — 

Its  foam-rose  that  topples  and  spreads  at 
the  crest  of  the  Fountain's  full  stress, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          67 

That  the  impulse  that  lifts  cannot  hold, 
that  dies  of  its  very  excess  ; 

Just  one  rapturous  moment,  while  love 
you  inhaled  like  the  soul  of  a  flower, 

For  a  breath  space,  an  indrawing  breath 
space,  that  words  have  no  power 

At  their  best  to  express,  so  divine,  so  en 
chanting,  its  soul-piercing  scent, 

Thrilling  through  all  the  nerves,  but  at 
last  in  a  sigh  to  be  breathed  out  and 
spent; 

Just  one  moment,  no  longer;  and  then,  all 

the  strength  and  desire 
Faded  out,   all   the    passion    exhausted, 

naught  left  of  the  fire 

But  the  sullen,  gray,  desolate  ashes,  —  oh, 
then,  would  you  cling  to  me  ?  Say, 

Would  you  love  me,  or  hate  me,  or  scorn 
me,  and  ruthlessly  fling  me  away  ? 

Who  knows  ?  Love  and  hate  are  so  near, 
joy  and  pain,  ice  and  fire,  hope  and 
fear, 

That  I  doubt,  the  next  moment,  this  mo 
ment  so  tender,  so  perfect,  so  dear. 


68  HE  AND  SHE;    OS, 

This  maddening  moment  I  know,  let  the 
next  what  it  chooses  reveal; 

"Tis  enough  that  you  love  me  this  mo 
ment,  let  Fate,  as  she  will,  spin  her 
wheel, 

Weave  her  web,  cast  her  net,  unto  grief 

or  despair  make  us  prey; 
This  is  mine,  this  is  ours,  and,  once  given, 

can  never  be  taken  away. 

What  though,  from  our  dream  when  we 
wake,  our  love  a  mere  folly  may 
seem  ? 

What  is  life  at  the  best  but  a  sleep  ? 
what  is  love  but  a  dream  ? 

She.  I  should  like  to  hear  her  answer 
to  all  this  rigmarole. 

He.   You  are  complimentary. 

She.  I  have  no  doubt  it  ended  by  his 
love  being  for  a  moment  and  hers  for  a 
lifetime,  —  long  after  he  had  forgotten 
her. 

He.  No:  they  were  married  and  settled 
down,  and  lived  together  like  very  peace 
able,  good  people;  and  when  he  was  sixty 
years  old  he  wrote  her  another  poem,  of 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.  69 

a  very  different  kind.  You  see,  love 
looks  differently  from  the  point  of  view 
of  sixty  years,  after  forty  years  of  mar 
riage,  from  what  it  did  at  twenty,  before 
marriage. 

She.  You  don't  happen  to  have  that 
last  poem,  do  you  ?  I  suppose  it  was  a 
cold-hearted  kind  of  thing. 

He.  Yes,  it  was  not  in  the  same  key. 
It  was  a  little  toned  down.  There  was 
not  so  much  clashing  of  cymbals  and 
blare  of  brass  trumpets  in  the  orchestra. 
The  noisy  instruments  had  all  gone  away, 
the  gas  and  footlights  were  all  extin 
guished,  and  the  piece  was  played  on  a 
summer  afternoon  by  a  violin  and  a  vio 
loncello  accompanied  by  an  old  spinet, 
while  a  childish  flute  lisped  on  now  and 
then,  as  if  from  Arcadian  woods. 

She.  I  like  that  better.  Let  me  hear 
what  they  played. 

He.  It  was  not  a  symphony;  only  a 
little  old  song;  and  here  it  is:  — 

Yes,  dear,  I  remember  those  old  days, 
And  oh,  how  charming  they  were  ! 

I  doubt  —  no,  I  know  that  no  others  to 

come 
Will  ever  such  feelings  stir. 


70  HE  AND  SEE;   OR, 

We  had  only  been  married  a  few  months, 
And  love,  like  a  delicate  haze, 

Veiled  in  beauty  the  trivial  doings, 
The  commonest  facts  of  those  days. 

Life  was  all  smiling  before  us, 

And  nature  was  smiling  around; 
Spring  hovering  near  us  caressed  us, 

And  joy  with  its  aureole  crowned  ; 
'Mid  the  flowers  and  the  trees  in  blossom, 

Afar  from  the  world  we  dwelt, 
And  the  air  was  sweet  with  a  thousand 
odors, 

And  the  world  like  a  full  rose  smelt. 

In  the  morning  I  used  to  leave  you, 

And  that  was  the  only  pain  ;  — 
Through  the  grass  with  its  dewdrops  dia 
monded 

We  walked  down  the  shadowy  lane, 
And  as  far  as  the  gate  you  went  with  me, 

And  there,  with  a  kiss  we  said 
Good-by  ;  and  you  lingering  watched  me, 

And  smiled  and  nodded  your  head, 

And  waved  your  handkerchief  to  me, 
And  I  constantly  turned  to  see 

If  you  still  were  there,  and  my  daily  work 
Seemed  a  cruel  necessity; 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          71 

The  last  turn  took  you  away  from  me, 

As  on  to  my  task  I  went, 
But  your  face  all  day  looked  up  from  the 
page, 

As  over  my  book  I  bent. 

And  when  day  was  over,  how  gladly 

I  rushed  from  the  dusty  town! 
As  I  opened  the  gate,  I  whistled, 

And  there  was  your  fluttering  gown 
As  you  ran  with  a  smile  to  meet  me, 

With  your  brown  curls  tossing  free, 
And  your  arms  were  thrown  about  my 
neck 

As  I  clasped  you  close  to  me. 

And  the  birds  broke  into  a  chorus 

Of  twittering  joy  and  love, 
And   the   golden  sunset   flamed  in    the 
trees, 

And  gladdened  the  sky  above, 
As  up  the  lane  together 

We  slowly  loitered  along, 
While  love  in  our  hearts  was  singing 

Its  young  and  exquisite  song. 

The  blood  through  our  veins  ran  swiftly, 
Like  a  stream  of  lambent  fire: 


72  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

Our  thoughts  were  all  winged,  and  our 
spirits 

Uplifted  with  sweet  desire. 
My  joy,  my  love,  my  darling, 

You  made  the  whole  world  sweet, 
And  the  very  ground  seemed  beautiful 

That  you  pressed  beneath  your  feet. 

What  was  there  more  to  ask  for, 

As  I  held  you  closely  there, 
And  you  smiled  with  those  gentle,  tender 
eyes, 

And  I  breathed  the  scent  of  your  hair  ? 
Stop  Time,  and  speed  no  further ! 

Nothing,  as  long  as  we  live, 
Can  give  such  a  radiance  of  delight, 

As  one  hour  of  love  can  give. 

The  lilacs  were  filling  with  fragrance 

The  air  along  the  lane, 
And  I  never  smell  the  lilacs 

But  those  hours  revive  again; 
And  oft,  though  long  years  have  vanished, 

One  whiff  of  their  scent  will  bring 
Those  old  dear  days,  with  their  thrill  of 
life, 

When  love  was  in  blossoming. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          73 

Time  has  gone  on  despite  us, 

We  both  have  grown  old  and  gray, 
And  love  itself  has  grown  old  and  staid, 

But  it  never  has  flown  away; 
The  fragile  and  scented  blossom 

Of  springtime  and  youth  is  shed, 
But  its  sound,  sweet  fruit  of  a  large  con 
tent 

Hath  ripened  for  us  instead. 

She.  Ah,  well  !  There  was  life  in  the 
old  man  still.  I  think  that  is  more  to  my 
taste  than  the  other.  There  is  something 
more  real  about  it.  The  other  has  too 
many  banners  flying  and  gonfalons  flout 
ing  the  air,  and  there  is  too  much  glim 
mer  and  glamour  about  it.  This  is  more 
like  a  true  experience.  Only,  one  never 
can  tell  whether  a  poet's  poetic  existence 
and  feeling  has  any  true  relation  to  his 
own  real  life. 

He.  That  depends  on  what  you  call  his 
real  life. 

She.  For  the  most  part,  they  give  all 
their  sentiment  and  feeling  to  their  ideal 
creations,  and  have  very  little  to  spare 
for  their  wives.  I  don't  believe  much  in 
literary  husbands. 


74  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

He.   Nor  I.    Do  you  in  literary  wives  ? 

She.  Not  I.  I  suppose,  to  you,  dra 
matically  speaking,  one  of  these  poems 
is  just  as  true  to  life  as  the  other. 

He.  Yes,  of  course,  one  may  be  better 
than  the  other;  but  while  I  was  writing 
them,  both  seemed  equally  true.  It  is 
all  a  matter  of  seeming.  A  poet,  if 
he  is  really  a  poet  in  the  high  sense,  is 
transported  into  situations  and  personages 
utterly  independent  of  himself,  and,  for 
the  time,  is  more  affected  by  their  imagi 
nary  experiences  and  conditions  and  feel 
ings  than  by  any  real  experiences  of  his 
own. 

She.   Some  poets;  not  all. 

He.  I  mean,  of  course,  dramatic  poets, 
not  didactic.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  be 
taken  literally  in  many  things  I  write  ;  but 
it  pleases  me  to  imagine  myself  to  be  dif 
ferent  persons,  and  to  express  in  my  poor 
way  what  comes  to  me  as  belonging  to 
that  person  in  the  supposed  situation.  In 
fact,  while  I  write  I  am  that  person ;  as 
Salvini  to-night  is  Othello,  and  to-morrow 
Saul,  or  Hamlet,  or  anybody  else,  all  of 
whom  are  quite  apart  from  him.  But  I 
am  getting  egotistic. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          75 

She.  No  matter.  I  excuse  you.  Men 
like  to  be  egotistic,  and  women  like  them 
to  be  so,  sometimes,  and  in  some  ways. 
There  is  a  sort  of  implied  compliment  in 
such  conversation,  when  it  does  not  go 
too  far. 

He.   Then  don't  let  me  go  too  far. 

She.  Never  fear  !  I  will  stop  you  in 
time.  You  say  that  these  poems  seem 
equally  good  to  you  while  you  are  writing 
them. 

He.  I  did  not  say  they  seemed  equally 
good,  but  equally  true  to  the  person  whose 
character  I  was  assuming.  Of  course 
every  one,  while  he  is  writing,  has  a  cer 
tain  consciousness  that  he  is  doing  better 
or  worse,  and  that  the  expression  he  is 
giving  to  his  thought  or  feeling  is  more 
or  less  happy  and  fresh,  or  the  reverse. 
In  some  moods  we  are,  so  to  speak,  better 
conductors  of  the  influence  which  inspires 
our  work,  but  that  influence  itself  is  be 
yond  our  control,  and  will  not  respond  to 
our  beck  and  call.  Any  one  who  has  ac 
quired  facility  in  writing  can  always,  to  a 
certain  extent,  command  his  powers,  and 
write,  as  it  were,  to  order.  But  we  are 
not  absolute  masters  of  our  moods,  and 


76  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

our  faculties  at  times,  despite  the  spur 
and  whip,  work  unwillingly  and  like 
drudges;  while  at  other  times  they  carry 
us  along  freely  and  gladly,  and  we  feel 
that  we  are  at  the  height  of  our  speed. 
True  poems  are  not  written  willfully.  Our 
thoughts  and  even  our  expressions  come 
to  us  we  know  not  how  or  whence.  The 
mind  conceives  as  the  body  does,  without 
our  conscious  will.  But  all  its  children 
are  not  equally  fair  and  well-propor 
tioned.  Sometimes  the  birth  is  a  mon 
ster,  very  rarely  an  angel,  and  generally  a 
very  human  kind  of  a  thing,  with  many 
defects  and  imperfections  ;  though,  what 
ever  it  be,  it  always  has  a  special  charm 
and  attraction  for  the  parent. 

She.  Yes,  and  the  uglier  it  is  the  more 
the  parent  dotes  on  it.  If  I  were  to 
attack  what  you  know  to  be  your  worst 
poem,  you  would  be  sure  at  the  least  to 
apologize  for  it  and  plead  for  it,  or  else 
insist  that  it  was  perhaps  (you  might  go 
so  far  as  to  say  perhaps)  your  best. 

He.  I  might,  for  I  do  not  think  any 
author  is  the  best  judge  of  the  relative 
value  of  his  works. 

She.  Who  is,  then  ? 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          77 

He.  Posterity,  —  after  the  fashion  of 
the  time  is  passed.  There  are  many 
shapely  arrangements  of  rags  and  tags 
which,  when  new,  seem  to  contain  beneath 
them  living  creatures,  but  after  they  are 
defaced  or  shredded  and  rotted  away  by 
time  are  found  to  cover  nothing  but 
wooden  and  lifeless  frames. 

She.  Time  makes  sad  havoc  even  with 
the  best  of  us,  and  strips  from  many  a 
poet  much  of  his  fine  draperies  of  verse 
and  singing  clothes  that  so  delighted  the 
world  in  his  generation.  I  suppose  we 
ought  only  to  admire  what  has  stood  the 
test  of  Time;  but  what  matters  it  what 
we  like,  provided  we  really  like  some 
thing  ?  The  great  thing  is  to  enjoy  what 
we  have,  without  waiting  for  posterity. 
Besides,  however  we  wait,  we  never  shall 
overtake  posterity,  and  meantime  we  may 
go  hungering  and  thirsting  and  empty 
because  of  our  fastidiousness.  We  can 
love  persons  who  are  not  perfect  ;  why 
not  things  ?  Oh,  I  do  so  hate  critics  who 
are  always  finding  faults  and  expecting 
perfection.  To  hear  them  talk  one  would 
think  them  superior  to  all  the  world  ;  and 
yet  I  don't  know  that  their  poems  and 


78  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

writings  are  any  better  than  the  works 
they  attack  so  bitterly. 

He.  I  like  them  better  when  they  are 
criticising  the  works  of  other  men  than 
when  they  fall  foul  of  mine. 

She.  Well,  I  will  be  a  gentle  critic,  if 
you  will  read  me  something  more. 

He.   But  I  wish  you  to  be  honest. 

She.  I  will  be  as  honest  as  I  can  be 
consistently  with  being  friendly;  but 
friendship  interferes  terribly  with  hon 
esty. 

He.  I  wonder  whether  you  would  like 
this,  which  I  call  "Nina  and  her  Treas 
ures."  Nina  is  a  little  peasant  girl  in 
Tuscany,  whom  I  don't  know,  whose  lover 
has  been  faithless,  and  she  is  looking  over 
the  little  trinkets  he  gave  her. 

Life,  since  you  left  me,  love,  has  been  but 

a  trouble  and  pain, 
t  am  always  longing  and  praying  to  see 

your  dear  face  again. 

Fate  has  been  cruel  and  hard,  and  so 

many  tears  I  have  shed; 
The  heart  is  an  empty  nest  for  the  rain, 

when  love  has  fled. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          79 

I  am  weary,  so  weary,  of  life,  and  the 
bitterest  pang  of  all 

Is  to  lie  and  think  of  the  past,  that  noth 
ing  can  ever  recall; 

To  lie  in  the  dark,  and  think  and  sob  to 

myself  alone, 
Quietly,  lest  I  should  waken  and  grieve 

mamma  with  my  moan. 

Sometimes  I  stretch  myself  out,  and  think, 

as  I  lie  on  my  bed, 
Thus  it  will  be  with  me,  when  I  'm  laid 

out  stiff  and  dead. 

Stay  not  away,  O  Death  !      Come  soon 

and  give  me  my  rest, 
With  the  calm  lids  over  my  eyes  and  my 

arms  crossed  over  my  breast. 

Then  perhaps  he  will  come,  and,  gazing 

upon  me,  say, 
Nina  was  good,  and  our  love  was  an  hour 

of  a  summer's  day. 

Ah,  yes,  a  day  that  the  clouds  overcast, 
ere  the  morning  was  done, 

And  whose  noon  was  a  dreary  rain,  with 
never  a  glimpse  of  sun. 


80  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

If  he  should  stoop  and  kiss  my  lips,  oh, 

if  I  were  dead, 
I  think  I  should  start  to  life,  and  rise  up 

in  my  bed. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  thinking,  with  all 

this  work  to  do  ? 
Oh,  yes,  mamma,  I  hear  you;  I  '11  come 

in  a  moment  to  you. 

What  am  I  doing  ?  Nothing.  I  'm  put 
ting  some  things  away; 

No, — not  the  trinkets  of  Gigi.  (Madonna, 
forgive  me,  I  pray  !) 

Oh,  no;  you  never  will  throw  them  into 

the  river,  I  know. 
Just  wait  till  I  find  my  needle,  and  then 

I  '11  come  in  and  sew. 

Oh,  this  is  the  hardest  of  all,  — to  smile 

and  to  chatter  lies, 
While  my  heart   is  breaking  and   tears 

blind  everything  to  my  eyes. 

When  will  there  come  an  end,  Madonna 

mia,  —  I  say, 
When  will  there  come  an  end,  and  the 

whole  world  pass  away  ? 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          81 

She.  Poor  little  Nina  !  I  feel  quite  sad 
about  her.  Did  he  ever  come  back  ? 

He.  No  ;  Nina  married  another  fel 
low,  who  owned  a  cow  and  had  a  thou 
sand  francs  for  a  fortune,  and  —  but  I  '11 
tell  you  her  story  another  time. 

She.   So  Nina  was  a  real  person  ? 

He.  Not  in  the  least;  but  she  might 
have  been. 

She.  I  think  for  the  present  we  have 
had  enough  of  love ;  now  read  me  some 
thing  of  a  different  kind. 

He.  No,  I  must  read  you  one  more 
poem  about  love,  as  expressing  the  way 
a  man  takes  his  disappointment,  just  in 
contrast  to  Nina.  You  have  set  me  going 
on  this  track,  and  I  must  take  one  step 
more,  and  then  we  will  close  the  book.  I 
call  it 

A  BLACK  DAY. 

I  thought  it  was  dead; 
That  the  years  had  crushed  it  down  and 

trodden  it  out 

With  their  cruel  tramp  and  tread; 
That  nothing  was  left  but  the  ashes,  cold 

and  gray, 

Of  a  love  that  had  wholly  passed  away, 
6 


82  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

With   its   hope,  and  fear,  and  joy,  and 

doubt. 

But  nothing  utterly  dies; 
And  again,  as  I  tread  the  paths  of  these 

silent  woods, 
Where  we  walked  and  loved  a  few  long 

years  ago, 
And  list  to  the  wind's  soft  sighs 

Rustling  the  solitudes, 
And  the  low,  perpetual  hum  and  welling 

flow 

Of  the  torrent  that  finds  its  way 
And  talks  to   itself  among  the  mossy, 

gray 

And  unchanged  boulders  and  stones  — 
Again,  with  a  sudden,  sharp  surprise, 
The  old  life  leaps  anew  with  a  rush  be 
fore  me: 
The  cloud  of  these  dreary  years  that  have 

darkened  o'er  me 
Lifts  and  passes,  and  you,are  again  beside 

me: 
The  tones  of  your  voice  I  hear;  I  look  hi 

your  tender  eyes, 
And  I  fiercely  and  vainly  long  for  what  is 

denied  me, 
And  I  curse  my  cruel  fate,  as  I  cursed  it 

then. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          83 

Ah !  what  has  brought  me  here  to  this 
fatal  glen? 

I  would  that  the  sky  was  a  globe  of  frag 
ile  glass, 
That  I  to  atoms  might  dash  it; 

And  the  flowers,  and  the  trees,  and  the 
whole  wide  world  around 

Were  all  at  my  very  feet  lying  here  on 

the  ground, 
That  I  into  flinders  might  pash  it. 

With  a  terrible  impotent  rage  my  close- 
clenched  hand 

I  shake  at  these  pitiless  skies  that  glare 
above, 

And  the  smothered  flame  of  a  wild,  de 
spairing  love, 

One  breath  of  the  breeze  with  a  sudden 

strength  has  fanned 
To  a  world- wide  conflagration; 

And  I  cry  in  a  torture  of  pain, 

With  a  cry  that  is  all  in  vain, 

Come  back,  come  back  again, 

And  deny  me  not  in  my  desperation 

The  love  that  I  crave,  —  the  love  you  de 
nied  of  yore  ! 

Come  back  and  behold  me,  and  into  my 

spirit  pour 
Some  balm  of  consolation; 


84  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

Or  strike  me  dead  to  the  earth,  that  I  no 

more 
May  grovel,  tortured  in  spirit  and  wild 

with  grief, 
Looking  out  all  over  the  world  in  vain  for 

relief. 
Come  back,  I  implore  ! 

Curses   upon  the  place,   the    time,  the 

hour, 

When  first  I  met  you; 
Curses  upon  myself,  that  am  all  without 

the  power, 

Despite  my  will,  to  forget  you  ! 
Ah,  would  to  God  that  you  for  an  hour's 

brief  space  — 

Only  an  hour  —  might  suffer  as  I  do  ! 
Ah,  would  to  God  that  you  were  here 

in  my  place, 
With  the  barb  in  your  heart,  like  a  dee* 

at  the  end  of  the  race, 
With  naught  but  despair  beside  you, 
Nothing  but  death  and  the  heartless  skies 

above, 

That  laugh  alike  at  our  joy  and  our  grief 
and  our  love. 

But  no  !  ah  no  !  you  are  happy  and  gay, 
and  glad. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          85 

And  what  care  you  for  the  memories 

dark  and  sad 
That  have  ruined  my  hereafter. 

Brook-like,  above  my  broken  hopes  that 
lie 

Hidden  perchance  beneath  your  memory, 
Your  light  thoughts  run  with  laughter. 

I  see  you  smiling,  —  I  know  you  are  smil 
ing  still; 

At  the  fountain  of  joy  you  stoop  and  drink 

your  fill, 
Careless  whose  heart  you  are  breaking. 

But  the  terrible  thirst  with  which  I  am 

curst, 
Ah  me  !  is  beyond  all  slaking; 

For  the  stream  of  which  I  am  drinking 

Is  a  torrent  of  fire  and  fierce  desire. 

For  me  there  is  no  more  thinking, 

No  more  hoping,  or  dreaming,  or  yearn 
ing* 

No  more  living,  and  no  more  laughing, 

Nothing  for  me  but  that  fountain  burning, 

Where  my  spirit  is  ever  quaffing. 

Curses  upon  the  hour  and  the  place,  I  say! 
Why  did  my  footsteps  lead  me  here  ? 
Will  these  wild  memories    never  pass 
away? 


86  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Can  I  never  forget  you  ?    Ah,  too  dear, 

too  dear ! 

Never  while  life  shall  last, 
Never,  ah  never,  till  all  the  world  has 


She.  That  is  not  what  I  should  call  a 
nice  young  man.  I  do  not  at  all  approve 
of  Tiirn. 

He.  Poor  fellow  !  He  blew  his  brains 
out,  a  week  after,  on  that  same  spot.  It 
is  a  curious  fact  that  women  never  do  this, 
—  and  yet  they  are  always  talking  of  dy 
ing  for  love. 

She.  They  have  too  much  sense  to  do 
such  stupid  things.  They  embroider  their 
disappointments  into  tidies  and  chair 
backs  and  table  covers,  which  is  far 
more  sensible,  or  net  it  away  into  purses 
and  shawls  and  bedquilts. 

He.  It  is  time  for  us  to  be  going.  Shall 
we  stroll  along  ? 

She.   No  !    One  more  poem. 

He.  No,  no  !  I  have  already  read  you 
too  many  of  these  scraps,  which  after  all 
are  not  worth  reading;  and  besides,  the 
day  is  going.  Let  us  pass  the  rest  of 
it  without  reading.  Let  us  wander  along 
together  through  this  glen. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.         87 

She.  No.  I  must  finish  embroidering 
this  flower  first.  It  will  scarcely  take  me 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  you  must  now 
read  me  one  more  poem;  and  let  it  be  a 
serious  one,  —  one  of  your  best. 

He.  I  don't  know  what  is  best,  and 
what  is  worst.  But  if  you  want  a  serious 
one,  I  will  read  you  this.  It  is  a  lost  ode 
of  Horace  addressed  to  Victor.  You  will 
not  find  it  in  his  printed  works.  I  dis 
covered  it  in  an  old  Palimpsest  MS.,  and 
translated  it  word  for  word. 

TO  VICTOR. 

NOR  I,  nor  thou,  with  all  our  seeking, 

know 

Whither,  when  life  is  over,  we  shall  go, 
Nor  what  awaits  us  on  that  farther 

shore, 
Hid  from  our  eyes  by  Acheron's  dark  flow. 

We  only  know  —  and  this  we  must  en 
dure — 

That  Death  waits  for  us,  whom  no  prayer 

or  lure 

Can  move  or  change;  towards  whose 
outstretched  arms 

Each  moment  onward  drives  us,  silent, 
sure. 


88  HE  AND  SHE;    OR, 

What  he  conceals  behind  that  veil  he 

draws 
We  know  not,  Victor;  but  his  shadow 

awes 
This  life  of   ours,  and    in    the  very 

height 
Of  joy  and  love  he  bids  us  shuddering 

pause. 

Virtue    avails  us  not,  nor  wealth,  nor 

power, 

To  stay  one  moment  the  appointed  hour. 
Marcellus,    Caesar,    Virgil,    all    have 

gone,  — 
The  fatal  sickle  reaps  grain,  bud,  and 

flower. 

Where  are  they  now  ?    Upon  some  un 
known  strand 

Shall  we  again  behold  them,  clasp  their 

hand, 
And,  untormented  by  the  ills  of  life, 

Renew    our    friendship,    and     together 
stand? 

Or,  when  the  end  is  reached,  — and  come 

it  must,  — 
Shall  we,  despite  the  hope  in  which  w« 

trust, 


A  POET 8  PORTFOLIO.         89 

Feel  nothing  more,  nor  love,  nor  joy, 

nor  pain, 

But  be  at  last  mere  mute,  insensate  dust  ? 
If  so,  then  virtue  is  a  lying  snare. 
Let  us  fill  high  the  bowl,  drown  sullen 

care, 
Reap  the  earth's  joys  and  all  the  joys 

of  sense, 
And  of  Life's  bounty  seize  our  fullest 

share. 

The  Gods  forbid  the  curious  human  eye 
Into  the  Future's  mystery  to  spy. 

They  give  us  hour  by  hour,  and  scarcely 

that; 
For,  ere  the  hour  is  measured,  we  may  die. 

But  if  thou  goest  before  me  where  no 

speech, 
No  word  of  friendship,  no  warm  grasp, 

can  reach, 
Let  me  not  linger.     May  the  pitying 

Gods 
Send  the  same  final  summons  unto  each  ! 

Whether  stern  Death  reach  out  his  hand 
to  bless 

Or  sweep  us  down  to  blank,  dire  nothing 
ness — 


90  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Whate'er  may  come,  together  let  us  go 
Where,  at  the  worst,  we  shall  escape  life's 
stress. 

She.  Ah,  yes ;  that  is  serious  enough, 
and  sad  enough.  What  have  we  learned 
since  Horace  ?  How  much  nearer  are  we 
to  the  solving  of  the  eternal  riddle  that 
ever  is  taunting  us  ?  What  do  we  know  of 
anything  ? 

He.  Que  spais-je?  You  know  Mon 
taigne's  motto.  That  is  the  question  one 
always  asks. 

She.   And  the  answer  is  ? 

He.  Rien.    It  is  perfectly  simple. 

She.  Then  what  is  the  use  of  it  all? 
To  what  purpose  are  all  our  struggles,  all 
our  yearnings,  all  our  failures,  all  our  de 
feats,  since  life  always  at  the  last  ends  in 
defeat? 

He.  That  depends  on  what  you  mean 
by  defeat.  It  is  not  always  the  conquer 
ors  who  triumph.  To  act  well  one's  part 
is  the  triumph.  That  is  the  old  stoic  doc 
trine  so  fully  illustrated  in  the  life  and 
meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  Act  ac 
cording  to  your  nature,  he  says.  That 
is  what  life  requires  of  you.  Develop 
your  noble  and  aspiring  principles  as  the 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          91 

tree  does,  which  grows  up  to  the  sun  and 
the  sky,  and  bears  its  fruit  without  tri 
umph,  and  drops  it  without  regret,  and 
gathers  its  joy  out  of  heaven,  seeking  not 
to  bear  the  fruit  which  does  not  belong  to 
it.  Even  the  imperfect  has  its  exquisite 
charm,  as  the  sweetest  figs  have  their 
rinds  torn  and  scratched.  It  is  not  the 
smooth  which  is  the  best.  The  trials  of 
life  have  an  infinite  value.  And  now  to 
hear  the  end  of  the  whole  matter,  let  me 
read  for  you  my  very  last,  —  a  psean  for 
the  conquered,  an  lo  Victis:  — 

10  VICTIS! 

t  SING  the  hymn  of  the  conquered,  who 

fell  in  the  Battle  of  Life,  — 
!The  hymn  of  the  wounded,  the  beaten, 

who    died    overwhelmed    in    the 

strife; 
&ot  the  jubilant  song  of  the  victors,  for 

whom  the  resounding  acclaim 
Of  nations  was  lifted  in  chorus,  whose 

brows  wore  the  chaplet  of  fame, 
But  the  hymn  of  the  low  and  the  humble, 

the  weary,  the  broken  in  heart, 
Who  strove  and  who  failed,  acting  bravely 

a  silent  and  desperate  part; 


92  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Whose    youth    bore    no    flower    on    its 

branches,  whose  hopes  burned  in 

ashes  away, 
From  whose  hands  slipped  the  prize  they 

had  grasped  at,  who  stood  at  the 

dying  of  day 
With  the  wreck  of  their  life  all  around 

them,  unpitied,  unheeded,  alone, 
With  Death  swooping  down  o'er   their 

failure,   and   all   but    their  faith 

overthrown. 

While  the  voice  of  the  world  shouts  its 
chorus,  —  its  paean  for  those  who 
have  won; 

While  the  trumpet  is  sounding  triumph 
ant,  and  high  to  the  breeze  and 
the  sun 

Glad  banners  are  waving,  hands  clapping, 
and  hurrying  feet 

Thronging  after  the  laurel-crowned  vic 
tors,  I  stand  on  the  field  of  de 
feat, 

In  the  shadow,  with  those  who  are  fallen, 
and  wounded,  and  dying,  and 
there 

Chant  a  requiem  low,  place  my  hand  on 
their  pain-knotted  brows,  breathe 
a  prayer, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          93 

Hold  the  hand  that  is  helpless,  and  whis 
per,  "  They  only  the  victory  win, 

Who  have  fought  the  good  fight,  and  have 
vanquished  the  demon  that  tempts 
us  within; 

Who  have  held  to  their  faith  unseduced 
by  the  prize  that  the  world  holds 
on  high; 

Who  have  dared  for  a  high  cause  to  suf 
fer,  resist,  fight,  —  if  need  be,  to 
die." 

Speak,  History  !  who  are  Life's  victors  ? 

Unroll  thy  long  annals,  and  say, 
Are  they  those  whom  the  world  called  the 

victors  —  who  won  the  success  of  a 

day? 
The  martyrs,  or  Nero?    The  Spartans, 

who  fell  at  Thermopylae's  tryst, 
Or  the  Persians  and  Xerxes  ?  His  judges 

or  Socrates  ?  Pilate  or  Christ  ? 

She.   Thank  you.    That  is  a  consolation 
to  us  who  do  not  win  the  laurel. 


The  poem  he  was  then  scribbling  when 


94  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

she  interrupted  him,  he  did  not  read. 
But  he  afterwards  sent  it  to  her,  and  as  it 
describes  the  glen  where  the  conversation 
took  place,  it  may  as  well  be  added  to 
those  he  really  read. 

IN  THE  GLEN. 

HERE  in  this  cool,  secluded  glen 
Alone  with  Nature  let  me  lie, 
Where  no  rude  voice  or  peering  eyes  of 

men 

Disturbs  its  perfect  peace  and  privacy  ; 
Where  through  the  swaying  firs  the  rest 
less  breeze 

Sighs   softly  and  the  murmuring  tor 
rent  flows, 

Singing  the  same  low  song  as  on  it  goes, 

That  it  hath  sung  for  countless  centuries  ; 

Now  welling  through  the  mossy  rocks, 

now  spilled 
In  little  sparkling  falls,  now  lingering, 

stilled, 
In  brown,  deep  pools  to  hold  the  mirrored 


As  brown,  as  clear,  as  some  fair  maiden's 

eyes, 
And  filled  like  them  with  silent  mysteries. 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.          95 

One   side   the   shelving  slopes,    through 

which  its  song 
The  torrent  sings,  the  firs'  tall  columns 

throng, 
Spreading  their  dark  green  tops  against 

the  blue  ; 
And  on  the  brown,  fine  carpet  at  their 

feet 

Long  strips  and  flecks  of  sun  strike  glim 
mering  through, 
Where    gleaming    specks    of    insects 

through  them  fleet. 

Along  the  other  slope  green  beeches  spread 
Their  spotted  canopy  of  light  and  shade, 
And  on  the  brown,  transparent  stream 

below 
Their    quivering,    tessellated    pavement 

throw. 

Here    ferns    and   bracken   spread   their 

plumy  spray  ; 
Here  the  wild  rose  gropes  out  against  the 

gray 
Moss-cushioned  rocks,  and  o'er  the  torrent 

swings  ; 

Here  o'er  the  bank  the  sombre  ivy  strings, 
And  the  scorned  thistle  bears  its  royal 

crown; 


96  HE  AND  SEE;   OR, 

Here  wild  clematis  stretches,  wavering 
down  ; 

And,  'miJ.  a  mass  of  tangled  weeds  that 
know 

Scarcely  a  name,  and  all  neglected  grow, 

A  tribe  of  gracious  flowers  peeps  smiling 
up: 

The  humble  dandelion,  buttercup, 

And  spindled  gorse  here  show  their  gleam 
ing  gold  ; 

The  bright-eyed  daisy,  innocently  bold, 

Stars  the  lush  green  ;  the  purple  malva 
lifts 

Its  spreading  cup.  From  tufted  black 
berries  drifts 

A  snow  of  blossoms,  scenting  with  their 
breath 

The  summer  air  ;  and,  sacred  to  St.  John, 

The  magic  flower  that  maidens  cull  at 
dawn  ; 

And  blue  f  orgot-me-nots,  scarce  seen  be 
neath 

The  feathery  grass  ;  and  the  white  hem 
lock's  face  ; 

And  all  the  wild,  untrained,  and  happy 
race 

Of  Nature's  children,  through  whose 
blooms  the  bees, 

Busy  for  honey  hovering,  hum  and  tease. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.          97 

Softened,  by  distance,  from  the  woods 

remote, 

Rings,  now  and  then,  the  blackbird's  li 
quid  note  ; 

Or  the  jay  scolds,  or  far  up  in  the  sky 
Trills  out  the  lark's  long,  quivfering  mel 
ody  ; 

Or,  its  melodious  passion  pouring  out, 
In  the  green  shadow  hid,  the  nightingale 
Stills  all  the  world  to  listen  to  its  tale, 
The  same  sweet  tale  that  centuries  past  it 

sung 

To  Grecian  ears,  when  Poesy  was  young  ; 
Or  the  glad  goldfinch  tunes  his  tremulous 

throat, 

Or  with  a  sudden  chirp  some  linnet  gray 
\)arts  up  the  gorge,  to  drink  at  these  cool 

springs, 
And  at  a  glimpse  of  me  flits  swift  away. 

A  faint,  fine  hum  of  myriad  quivering 

wings 

Fills  all  the  air  ;  the  idle  butterfly 
Drifts  down  the  glen  ;  and  through  the 

grasses  low 
Creep  swarms  of  busy  creatures  to  and 

fro, 
And  have  their  loves,  and  joys,  and  strife 

and  hate, 


98  HE  AND  SEE;  OR, 

Intent  upon  a  life  to  us  unknown. 

On  the  o'erhanging  bowlders  glance  and 

gleam 
Quick,   quivering   lights  reflected   from 

the  stream, 
Where  water-spiders  poise  and  darting 

skate, 
Their  shadows  on  its  dappled  sand-floor 

thrown. 
Across  the  bowlders  bare  and  pine-slopes 

brown, 

Like  dials  of  the  day  that  passes  by, 
The  firs'  long  shadow-index  silently, 
So  silently,  is  ever  stealing  on, 
We  scarcely  heed  the  unpausing  race  of 

time 
So  swift  and  noiseless  ;  and  some  subtle 

spell 
Seems  to  have  lulled  to  sleep  this  shadowy 

dell, 

As  if  it  lay  in  some  enchanted  clime, 
Haunted  by  dreams  that    never  poet's 

rhyme 
Nor  music's  voice  to  waking  ears  can  tell. 

All  is  so  peaceful  here  that  weary  thought 
Half  falls  asleep,  nor  seeks  to  find  the  key 
Of  the  pervading,  unsolved  mystery 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO          99 

Through  which  we  move,  by  which  our 

life  is  wrought. 

Here,  magnetized  by  Nature,  if  the  eye 
Upglancing  should  discern  in  the  soft 

shade 
Some  Dryad's  form,  or,  where  the  waters 

braid 
Their    silvery   windings,    haply    should 

descry 

Some  naked  Naiad  leaning  on  the  rocks, 
Her  feet  dropped  in  its  basin,  while  her 

locks 

She  lifts  from  off  her  shoulders  unafraid, 
And  gazes  round,  or  looks  into  the  cool 
Tranced  mirror  of  the   softly-gleaming 

pool, 

To  see  her  polished  limbs  and  bosom  bare 
And  sweet,  dim  eyes  and  smile  reflected 

there, 
'T  would  scarce  seem  strange,  but  only  as 

it  were 

A  natural  presence,  natural  as  yon  rose 
That  spreads  its  beauty  careless  to  the  air, 
And  knows  not  whence  it  came  nor  why 

it  grows, 

And  just  as  simply,  innocently  there  ; 
The  sweet  presiding  spirit  of  some  tree, 
The  soul  indwelling  in  the  murmuring 

brook, 


100  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

Whose  voice  we  hear,  whose  form  we  can 
not  see, 

On  whom,  at  last,  't  is  given  us  to  look  ; 
As  if  dear  Nature  for  a  moment's  space 
Lifted  her  veil  and  met  us  face  to  face. 

Such  Grecian  thought  is  false  to  our  rude 

sense, 
That  naught  believes,  or  feels,  or  hears,  or 


Of  what  the  world  in  happier  days  of 

Greece 

Felt  with  a  feeling  gentle  and  intense. 
We  are  divorced  from  Nature  ;  our  dull 

ears 

Catch  not  the  music  of  the  finer  spheres, 
See  not  the  spirits  that  in  Nature  dwell 
In  leafy  groves  through  which  they  glanc 
ing  look, 

In  the  dim  music  of  the  singing  brook, 
And  lurk  half  hidden  and  half  audible. 
To  us  the  world  is  dead.  The  soul  of 

things, 

The  life  that  haunts  us  with  imaginings, 
That  lives,  breathes,  throbs  in  all  we  hear 

and  see, 

The  charm,  the  secret  hidden  everywhere, 
Evades  all  reason,  spurns  philosophy, 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.        101 

And  scorns  by  boasting  science   to  be 

tracked. 

Hunt  as  we  will  all  matter  to  the  end, 
Life  flits  before  it ;  last,  as  first,  we  find 
Naught  but  dead  structure  and  the  dust 

of  fact ; 

The  infinite  gap  we  cannot  apprehend, 
The  somewhat  that*  i&  life  —  the  inform 
ing  mind.      8         !  '      *  • 

Even  here  in  this  stHi,glen  J  .camlet  ftec,  « 
The  secret  that  tormencs  us  'ever/where'; 
In  cloud,  sky,  rock,  tree,  man,  its  mystery 
Pursues  us  ever  to  the  same  despair. 
What  says  this  brook,  that  ever  murmur 
ing  flows  ? 
What  whisper  these  tall  trees  that  talk 

alway  ? 
What  secret  hides  the  perfume  of  this 

rose? 
What  is  it  that  dear  Nature  strives  to 

say? 

Our  sense  is  dull,  we  cannot  understand 
The  voice  we  hear  —  but,  oh  !  so  far  away 
As  from  a  world  beyond  our  night  and 

day, 

A  dream- voice  from  some  dim,  imagined 
land. 


102  HE  AND  SHE;  OR, 

Here  dreaming  on  in  idle,  tranquil  mood, 
Lulled  by  the  tune  that  Nature  softly 

plays, 
Our  wandering  thoughts,  by  some  strange 

spell  subdued, 
Are  calmed  and  stilled,  and  all  seems 

sweet  and  good, 
And  she  .  our  mother  seems,  that  on  her 

breast,;  ..  ;  '„/ 
With  murmuring  voice,  aj.d  gentle,  whis- 


Hushes  her  child  within  her  arms  to  rest  ; 
And,  though  the   child  scarce   knoweth 

what  she  says, 
He  feels  her  presence  gently  o'er  him 

brood. 

And  yet,  O  Nature,  thou  no  mother  art, 
But  for  a  moment,  like  to  this,  at  best 
A  stern  step-mother  thou,  that  to  thy  heart 
Claspest  thy  child  by  some  caprice  pos 

sessed, 

Then,  careless  of  his  fate,  abandonest, 
Flinging  him  off  from  thee  to  wail  and  cry, 
All  heedless  if  he  live  or  if  he  die. 
Is  it  for  us  thou,  reckless,  squanderest 
Thy  beauty  with  such  wide  and  lavish 

waste? 


A  POETS  PORTFOLIO.        103 

For  us  ?    Ah  !  no  ;  were  we  all  swept 

away, 
What  wouldst  thou  care?     No  change 

upon  thy  face 

Would  answer  to  our  sorrow  or  disgrace, 
Alike  to  those  who  love,  laugh,  weep,  or 

pray. 

Glares  not  the  sun  impertinent  upon 
Our  darkest  griefs?     Do  not  the  glad 

flowers  blow, 
The  unpausing  hours,  days,  seasons  come 

and  go, 
Despite  our  joys  and  loves  ?    To  all  our 

woe 
Have  we    a    sympathetic    answer    ever 

won? 
Are  thy  stones   softer  on  the  path  we 

tread 
Because  our  thoughts  are  journeying  with 

the  dead  ? 

Is  not  this  world,  with  all  its  beauty,  rife 
With  endless  war,  death  preying  upon 

life, 
Perpetual  horror,  pain,  crime,   discord, 

strife, 

Night  chasing  day,  storms  driving  sun 
shine  out  ? 
And  yet  through  all  impassive,  stern,  and 

cold, 


104  HE  AND  SHE;   OR, 

With  folded  hands,  which  hide  whate'er 

they  hold, 
Like  Nemesis,  thou  standest,  speaking 

not, 
Before  the  gates  of  Fate  ;  and,  if  they 

ope, 
To  show  one  glimpse  beyond,  one  gleam 

of  hope, 
'T  is  but  an  instant;   then  the  door  is 

shut ; 
And,  poor,  blind  creatures,  here  astray 

we  grope, 

Stretching  our  hands  out  where  we  can 
not  see, 
Through  the  dark  paths  of  this  world's 

mystery. 

And  yet,  why  spoil  the  day  with  thoughts 
like  these  ? 

•Better  to  lie  beneath  these  whispering 
trees 

And  take  the  joy  the  moment  gives,  and 
feel 

The  glad,  pure  day,  the  gently  lifting 
breeze 

That  steals  their  odors  from  the  uncon 
scious  flowers, 

Nor  seek  what  Nature  never  will  reveal, 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.        105 

The  hidden  secret  of  our  destinies. 

Let  it  all  go  —  whate'er  it  is  it  is, 

And,  come  what  will,  this  day,  at  least,  is 

ours. 
My  hour  is  gone,  dear  glen,  and  now 

farewell. 
Here    you    the    self-same    song,   bright 

brook,  will  sing  ; 
Here  you,  dark  firs,  the  self-same  tale 

will  tell, 

Mysterious,  to  the  low  wind  whispering, 
How  many  a  summer  day  to  other  ears, 
When  I  am  gone,  beyond  all  doubts, 

hopes,  fears, 
Beyond  all  sights  and  sounds  of  this  fair 

world, 

Into  the  dim  beyond  ;  in  time  to  come 
Will  many  a  dreamer  sit  for  many  an 

hour, 
Lulled  by  your  murmur,  and  the  insects' 

hum, 
And  many  a  poet  praise  you.     Clasped 

and  curled 
Beside  these  rocks,  and  plucking    some 

chance  flower, 

Will  many  a  pair  of  lovers  linger,  dumb 
With  loves  too  much  for  utterance,  all 

too  weak 


106  HE  AND  BEE;   OR, 

The  charm  they  feel,  the  joy  they  own,  to 

speak. 
Here  wandering  from  the    noisy  city's 

maze, 

How  many  an  idle,  casual  visitor 
Thy  beauty  with  a  careless    tone  will 

praise, 

And  turn  away  without  one  true  heart- 
stir. 
Here  the  dull  woodman,  thinking  but  of 

gain, 

Heedless  of  any  Dryad's  shriek  of  pain, 
Will  fell   with  ringing  axe   this   living 

wood  ; 
And  here  some  gentle  child,  o'er  whom 

the  dream 
And  lingering  lights  of    former    being 

brood, 
Perchance  may  meet  some  Naiad  at  this 

stream, 

By  whom  her  language  shall  be  under 
stood, 
And  here  together  they  will   talk  and 

play, 
And  many  a   secret  she  will  strive  to 

teU 
That  here  she  learns,  and  all  the  M  orld 

will  say, 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.        107 

Laughing  :  "  Dear  child,  this  is  not  cred 
ible." 

Ah  Heaven !  we  know  so  much  who 
nothing  know ! 

Only  to  children  and  in  poets'  ears, 

At  whom  the  wise  world  wondering 
smiles  and  sneers, 

Secrets  of  God  are  whispered  here  be 
low. 

Only  to  them,  and  those  whose  gentle 
heart 

Is  opened  wide  to  list  for  Beauty's  call, 

Will  Nature  lean  to  whisper  the  least 
part 

Of  that  great  mystery  which  circles  all. 

The  wise,  dull  world,  with  solid  facts  con 
tent, 

Laughs  at  all  dreamers,  deeming  nothing 
good 

Save  what  is  touched,  seen,  handled,  un 
derstood. 

Well,  let  it  laugh  !     To  me  the  firmament 

Is  more  than  gleaming  lights  ;  more  than 
mere  wood 

These  leafy  groves  ;  and  more  these  mur 
muring  streams 

Than  running  waters.  This  wide,  vapor 
ous  sky, 


108  HE  AND  SHE;   OB, 

Painted    by  morning,    fired    by    sunset 

gleams, 
These   winds  that    breathe   around  this 

swinging  world, 

This  restless  ocean,  moaning  constantly, 
These    storms     across    the     shuddering 

forests  whirled, 
The   season's   still  processions,  day  and 

night, 

That  each  the  other  silently  pursues, 
Sure  and  unchanging  in  their  even  flight, 
And  all  these  changing  shows  and  forms 

and  hues 
Not  for  mere  use  were  given,  nor  mere 

delight. 
Beauty  is  theirs  and  power,  and,  more,  a 

fine 
Dim  mystery  shrouds  them  man  can  ne'er 

divine. 
Harvests  that  sweeten  life  and  thought 

they  bear 

Imponderable,  exquisite,  and  rare, 
That  take  the  spirit  with  a  sweet  sms 

prise. 
Dreams  haunt  them,  intimations,  prophe> 

cies, 

Glad  lessons,  adumbrations,  spirit  gleams, 
That,  when  the  loving  heart  evokes  them, 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO.        109 

Others  may  reap  their  solid  facts;  for 

me, 

I  am  content  to  gather  inwardly 
Their  silent  harvest  of  poetic  dreams 


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